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Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14S80 
(71.)  873-4503 


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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  canadien  de  microreproductions  historiques 


'^ 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


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D 
D 
D 
D 


D 
D 
D 


n 


Coloured  covers/ 
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Covers  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommagde 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
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pas  dt6  film^es. 


□    Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 

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D 
D 
D 

n 


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D 


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Ce  document  est  film6  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqud  ci-dessous. 

10X  14X  18X  22X 


26X 


SOX 


12X 


J 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


Itails 
i  du 
lodifier 
r  une 
Image 


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L'exemplaire  film6  fut  reproduit  grSce  &  la 
ii^ndrositA  de: 

Bibliothdque  nationale  du  Canada 


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conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
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la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  ^•-  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END  "), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  chaque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  -^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE  ",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


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different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
film6s  A  des  taux  de  reduction  diff6rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  soul  clich6,  il  est  film6  A  partir 
de  Tangle  supdrieur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


errata 
to 


pelure, 
>n  d 


n 


32X 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

Th 


The  Hill  of  Pains 


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1 


The  Hill  of  Pains 


GILBERl'   PARKER 

Author  of  The  Seats  of  the  Mighty y  The  Battle 
of  the  Strongy  etc. 


Richard  G.  Badger  i^  Co. 

BOSTON 


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261041 


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COPYRIGHT   1899 
BY    RICHARD    O.    BADGER    k    CO. 


Gf.J.  H.  ELLIS,  miNTCK,  772  CONQReSS  ST.,  BOSTON. 


4 


The  Hill  of  Pains 


¥ 


I. 

SEE,  madame,  see, —  there,  on  the 
Hill  of  Pains!  .  .  .  One  more 
.  .  .  one  more." 

"One  more,  Marie,  ...  it  is  the 
life:  that  on  the  Hill,  this  here  be- 
low; and  yet  the  sun  is  bright,  the 
cockatoos  are  laughing  in  the  palms, 
and  you  hear  my  linnet  singing." 

"It  turns  slowly,  .  .  .  slowly.  Now 
It  points  across  the  Winter  Valley. 
...  Ah ! " 

"Yes,  across  the  Winter  Valley, 
where  the  deep  woods  are,  and  be- 
yond " — 

"  And  beyond  ?  " 


2  THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

"  To  the  Pascal  River." 

"  And  my  home  is  at  the  Pascal 
River.  ...  How  dim  the  sunshine 
has  become  !  I  can  only  see  It  now 
—  like  a  long  dark  finger."   .  .  . 

"  No,  child,  there  is  bright  sun- 
shine still :  there  is  no  cloud  at  all ; 
but  It  is  like  a  finger.  It  is  quiver- 
ing now,  as  if  it  were  not  sure." 

*'  Thanksgiving,  if  it  be  not  sure ! 
.  .  .  but  the  hill  is  cloudy  still." 

"  No,  Marie,  how  droll  you  are  ! 
The  hill  is  not  cloudy  :  even  from 
here  one  can  see  something  glisten 
beside  the  grove  of  pines." 

"  I  know.  It  is  the  White  Rock 
where  King  Ovi  died,  but  whose 
burial-place  none  knows." 

"  A  black  king  merely." 

"  His  heart  was  not  black :  there 
are    stains    upon    White   Rock,  and 


T 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS  3 

they  are  red.  ...  Is  it  still  upon 
the  Hill  of  Pains,  madame  ?  " 

"Yes,  still,  and  pointing  as  you 
say,  like  a  human  finger,  towards 
Winter  Valley." 

"  I  did  not  say  a  human  ^ng^r^ 
madame.  There  is  nothing  human 
there." 

"Yet  was  not  that  the  gleam  of 
bayonets  near  the  palisade?" 

"  But  bayonets  are  not  human, 
neither  here  in  Noumea,  nor  yet  on 
Isle  Nou  over  there." 

"  You  are  sad  to-day,  my  Marie. 
Have  you  had  lonely  dreams  ^.  " 

" /i?«  are  human,  madame.  It  is 
like  summer  always  where  you  are. 
Is  it  very  bright  out  there  just  now? 
Sometimes,  .  .  .  sometimes,  madame, 
things  are  so  dark  to  me." 

"  Marie,  turn  your  face  to  me  so ! 


4  THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

Your  eyes  do  not  see,  my  child, 
because  they  are  full  of  tears.  The 
cloud  is  in  them,  not  on  the  world. 
See,  I  kiss  this  rain  away." 

"  Yes,  it  is  my  eyes,  madame," 

"  It  is  the  tears,  Marie.'* 

"  I  weep  for  the  cloud  out  there 
upon  the  world,  and  yet  the  cloud  is 
in  my  eyes." 

"You  weep  because  of  It,  Marie. 
Your  heart  is  tender.  Your  tears 
are  for  the  prisoner, —  the  hunted  in 
the  chase." 

"  No,  madame,  I  am  selfish.  I 
weep  for  myself.  Tell  me  truly,  as 
—  as  if  I  were  your  own  child,  was 
there  no  cloud,  no  darkness,  out 
there  ?  " 

"  None,  dear.'* 

"Then, —  then, — madame,  I  sup- 
pose it  was  my  tears." 


THK  HILL  OF  PAINS  5 

"  Yes,  Marie,  it  was  your  tears." 
But  each  said  in  her  heart  it  was 
not  tears :  each  said,  "  Let  not  this 
thing  come,  O  God."  And  then 
with  a  caress  they  parted ;  but  the 
girl  remained  to  watch,  as  it  might 
be  granted  to  her,  that  gloomy  thing 
upon  the  Hill  of  Pains. 

As  she  stood  there,  witii  her 
fingers  clasped  upon  a  letter  which 
siie  drew  from  her  pocket  and  looked 
at  once  or  twice,  a  voice  from  among 
the  palms  outside  floated  towards  her. 
It  was  speaking  thus:  "  He  escaped 
last  night.  The  Semaphore,  there 
upon  the  Hill  of  Pains,  shows  that 
they  have  got  upon  his  track.  I 
suppose  they'll  try  to  converge  upon 
him,  and  hem  him  in,  before  he  gets 
to  Pascal  River.  Once  there,  he 
might  have  a  chance  of  escape ;  but 


11 


6  THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

he'll     need     a    lot    of    luck,    poor 
wretch  ! " 

Marie's  fingers  tightened  on  the 
letter. 

Then  another  voice  replied ;  and  it 
brought  a  flush  to  the  cheek  of  the 
girl,  and  a  hint  of  trouble  in  her 
eyes.  It  said  in  no  apparent  con- 
nection with  what  had  just  been  ut- 
tered, "  Is  Miss  Gorham  here  still  ?" 

"  Ah,  yes !  Miss  Marie  Gorham  is 
still  here,  to  our  pleasure.  My  wife 
will  be  distressed  when  she  leaves  us, 
yet  she  speaks  of  going  very  soon." 
"  I  doubt  not  she  will  be  distressed 
to  go.  The  Hotel  du  Gouverneur 
spoils  us  for  all  other  places  in  New 
Caledonia." 

"You     are    too     kind.    Monsieur 
Fading." 

"  I  do  not  say  at  all  what  I  should 
like  to  say,  Monsieur  le  Gouverneur." 


THE   HILL  OF   PAINS  7 

"  But  I  fear  that  those  who  think 
as  you  are  not  many.  After  all,  I 
am  little  more  here  than  a  gaoler, — 
merely  a  gaoler,  Monsieur  Farling." 

"  Ah  !  pardon  me  if  I  correct  you, 
—  the  Commandant  of  a  military 
station,  and  the  Governor  of  a 
Colony." 

* 

"  The  station  is  a  penitentiary ;  the 
colony, —  eh  ?  —  for  Ub'eres,  ticket-of- 
leave  men  and  outcast  Paris,  with  a 
sprinkling  of  gentlemen  and  officers 
dying  of  ennui.  No,  my  friend,  we 
French  are  not  colonists.  We  emi- 
grate :  we  do  not  colonize.  This  is 
no  colony.     We  do  no  good  here." 

"  You  forget  the  nickel  mines." 

"  Quarries  for  the  convicts  and  for 
political  prisoners  of  the  lowest  class." 

"And  the  plantations." 

"  Ah  !   there  1  crave  your  pardon. 


^s 


8 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


You  are  a  planter,  but  you  are  Eng- 
lish. Monsieur  Gorham  is  a  planter 
and  an  owner  of  mines,  but  he  is 
English.  The  man  who  has  made 
the  most  money  in  New  Caledonia 
—  Monsieur  Hilton  —  is  an  English- 
man. You,  and  a  few  others  like 
you,  French  and  English,  are  the 
only  colony  I  have.  I  do  not  rule 
you :  you  help  me  to  rule.*' 

«  To  rule  ?  " 

"  By  being  on  the  side  of  justice 
and  public  morality ;  by  dining  with 
me  (though  all  too  seldom) ;  by 
giving  me  a  quiet  hour  now  and  then 
beneath  your  vines  and  fig-trees,  and 
so  making  this  uniform  less  burden- 
some for  me  to  carry.  No,  no.  Mon- 
sieur Murray  Farling,  I  know  you 
are  about  to  say  something  very 
gracious,    but   you    shall     not :    you 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS  9 

shall  pay  your  compliments   to   the 
ladies.'* 

As  they  journeyed  to  the  morning- 
room,  Murray  Farling  said,  "Does 
Monsieur  Rive  Laflamme  still  come 
to  paint  the  portrait  of  Miss  Gor- 
ham  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  it  ends  in  a  day  or  two, 
and  then  no  more  of  that.  Prisoners 
are  prisoners;  and  pleasant  as  is 
Monsieur  Laflamme, —  that  makes 
it  the  more  diflicult.** 

"Why  should  he  be  treated  so 
well,  —  as  a  first-class  prisoner, —  and 
others  of  the  Commune  be  so  de- 
graded here,  as  Mayer,  for  instance?" 

"Ft  is  but  a  question  of  degree. 
He  was  an  artist  and  something  of  a 
dramatist;  he  was  not  at  the  Place 
Vendome  at  a  certain  critical  mo- 
ment ;   he  was  not  at   Montmartre  at 


10 


THE  HILL  OP^  PAINS 


a  particular  terrible  time;  he  was  not 
a  major,  like  Mayer ;  he  was  young, 
with  the  face  of  a  patriot.  Well, 
they  sent  Mayer  to  the  galleys  at 
Toulon.  Then,  among  the  worst  of 
the  prisoners  here,  he  was  too  bold, 
too  full  of  speech.  He  had  not 
Laflamme's  gift  of  silence,  of  pathos. 
Mayer  works  coarsely,  severely,  here  : 
Laflamme  grows  his  vegetables,  idles 
about  Ducos,  swings  in  his  hammock, 
and  appears  at  inspections.  One  day 
he  sent  to  me  the  picture  of  my 
wife.  Here  it  is.  Is  it  not  charm- 
ing? The  size  of  a  franc-piece  and 
so  perfect !  and  framed  in  gold.  .  .  . 
You  know  the  soft  hearts  of  women." 
"  You  mean  that  Madame  Solde  " 


"That  my  wife' persuaded  me  to 
let    him    come     here    to    paint    my 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


1 1 


portrait.  He  has  done  so,  and  now 
he  paints  Mademoiselle  Gorham. 
But—" 

"But?  — Yes?" 

"  But  these  things  have  their  dan- 
gers." 

"  Have  their  dangers,"  Murray 
Farling  musingly  repeated,  and  then 
added  under  his  breath  almost,  "  Es- 
cape or  " — 

"  Or  something  else,"  the  gover- 
nor rather  sharply  interrupted,  and 
then,  as  they  were  entering  the  room, 
gayly  continued,  "  Ah !  here  we  come, 
mademoiselle,  to  " — 

"  To  pay  your  surplus  of  compli- 
ments. Monsieur  le  Gouverneur.  I 
could  not  help  but  hear  something 
of  what  you  said.  Mr.  Farling,  I 
am  glad  to  see  you.  Let  me  think  : 
how  long  is  it  since  you  were  patri- 
otic ?  " 


12        THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

"  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  quite  under- 
stand, Miss  Gorham." 

"You  are  English.  So  am  I.  I 
am  here  at  the  charming  house  of 
a  French  governor.  Madame  Solde 
spoils  me.  There  are  denationalizing 
influences  about  me.  You  leave  me 
to  my  fate,"  she  said  with  pretty 
mockery. 

"  Believe  me,  Miss  Gorham,"  re- 
plied Murray  Fading,  with  the  blood 
quickening  at  his  heart, —  "believe 
me,  to  be  patriotic,  one  does  not 
kneel  continuously  at  the  foot  of  the 
throne.  Besides,  the  court  is  not  al- 
ways open  to  subjects." 

"  And  subjects  have  plantations, 
and  " — 

"  And  I  leave  you  to  Mademoi- 
selle Gorham's  tender  mercies.  Far- 
ling,"  said  the  governor.  "  y/«  re- 
voir  ! 


% 


'■% 


f' 
M 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         13 

When  he  had  gone,  Murray  Far- 
ling  said,  "  Ah  !  you  are  gay  to-day." 

"  No,  indeed,  no!   I  am  sad." 

"Sad?  and  wherefore  sad?  Is 
nickel  proving  a  drug?  or  sugar? 
Don't  tell  me  that  your  father  says 
sugar  is  falling."  He  glanced  at  the 
letter,  which  she  unconsciously  held 
in  her  hand. 

She  saw  his  look,  smoothed  the 
letter  a  little  nervously  between  her 
palms,  and  put  it  in  her  pocket,  re- 
plying: "No,  father  has  not  said 
that  sugar  is  falling.  But  come  here, 
will  you  ?  "  and  she  motioned  towards 
the  open  window.  When  there,  she 
said  slowly,  "That  is  what  makes 
me  sad  and  sorry."  And  she  pointed 
to  the  Semaphore  upon  the  Hill  of 
Pains. 

"You  are  too  tender-hearted,"  he 


H 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


remarked.  "  A  convict  has  escaped. 
He  will  be  caught  perhaps,  perhaps 
not ;  and  things  will  go  on  as  before." 
"  Will  go  on  as  before.  That  is, 
the  martinet  worse  than  the  knout  de 
Russe ;  the  poucettes^  the  crapaudine  on 
neck  and  ankles  and  wrists;  all,  all 
as  bad  as  the  Pater  Noster  of  the  In- 
quisition, as  Mayer  said  the  other 
day  in  the  face  of  Charpentier,  the 
Commandant  of  the  penitentiary. 
How  pleasant  also  to  think  of  the 
Boulevard  de  Guillotine !  I  tell  you 
it  is  brutal,  horrible.  Think  of  what 
prisoners  have  to  suffer  here,  whose 
only  crime  is  that  they  were  of  the 
Commune, —  that  they  were  just  a 
little    madder    than     other     French- 


»> 


men. 

"  Pardon  me,  if  I  say  that  as  brutal 
things  were  done  by  the  English  in 
Tasmania." 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         15 

"  Think  of  two  hundred  and  sixty 
strokes  of  the  'cat'!" 

"  You  concern  yourself  too  much 
about  these  things,  I  fear." 

"  I  only  think  that  death  would  be 
easier  than  the  life  of  half  the  convicts 
here." 

"  They  themselves  would  prefer  it, 
perhaps." 

"  Tell  me,  who  is  the  convict  that 
has  escaped  ?  "  she  rather  feverishly 
asked.     "  Is  it  a  political  prisoner?  " 

"You  would  not  know  him.  He 
was  one  of  the  Commune  who  es- 
caped shooting  in  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde.  Carbourd,  I  think,  was 
his  name." 

"  Carbourd,  Carbourd,"  she  re- 
peated, and  turned  her  head  away 
towards  the  Semaphore. 

The    girl's    earnestness    roused   in 


\f 


•I 


i6 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


Murray  Farling  a  glow  of  intense 
sympathy, — a  sympathy  which  had  its 
origin,  as  he  well  knew,  in  three  years 
of  growing  love.  This  love  leaped 
up  now  determinedly,  and  perhaps 
unwisely ;  but  what  should  a  blunt 
soul  like  Murray  Farling  know  re- 
garding the  best  or  worst  time  to 
seek  a  woman's  heart?  He  came 
close  to  her  now,  and  said,  "If  you 
are  so  kind  in  thought  for  a  convict, 
I  dare  hope  that  you  would  be  more 
kind  to  me." 

"  Be  kind  to  you,"  she  replied,  as 
if  not  understanding  what  he  said, 
nor  the  look  in  his  eyes. 


(( 


(( 


For  I  am 


You 


prisoner, 
prisoner  ? " 


too 


>» 


sne    a 


litth 


tremulously,  a  little  coldly,  rejoined. 
"In  your  hands,  Marie  Gorham. 
His  eyes  laid  bare  his  heart. 


4 


i 


3. 


i 

•ft 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         17 

'"  Oh,"  she  replied,  in  a  half- 
troubled,  half-indignant  fashion  ;  for 
she  was  out  of  touch  with  the  occa- 
sion of  his  suit,  and  every  woman  has 
in  her  mind  the  time  when  she  should 
and  when  she  should  not  be  wooed. 
Besides —  "Oh,  why  aren't  you 
plain  with  me  ? "  she  protestingly 
cried.  "  You  say  things  strangely, 
vaguely." 

"  Why  do  I  not  speak  plainly  P 
Because,  Marie  Gorham,  it  is  pos- 
sible for  a  man  to  be  fearful,  to  be  a 
coward  in  his  speech,"  —  he  touched 
her  fingers, —  "when  he  loves." 

She  drew  her  hand  from  his  quickly. 
"  Oh,  can't  we  be  friends  without 
(haf  ?  "  she  said  somewhat  bitterly. 

At  that  instant  there  was  a  sound 
of  footsteps  at  the  window.  Both 
turned,  and    saw  the    political    pris- 


i! 


i8 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


oner.  Rive  Laflamme,  followed  by  a 
guard. 

"  He  comes  to  finish  my  portrait," 
she  said.     "  This  is  the  last  sitting.'* 

"  Marie,  must  I  go  like  this  ^ 
When  may  I  see  you  again  ?  When 
will  you  answer  me  ?  You  will  not 
make  all  the  hopes  of  my  love  to  end 
here  ? " 

It  was  evident  that  some  deep 
trouble  was  on  the  girl.  She  flushed 
hotly,  as  if  she  were  about  to  reply 
hotly  also ;  but  she  changed  quickly, 
and  said,  not  unkindly,  "  When 
Monsieur  Laflamme  is  gone."  And 
now,  as  if  repenting  of  her  unreason- 
able words  of  a  moment  before,  she 
added :  "  Oh,  please  don't  think  me 
hard.  I  am  sorry  that  I  grieve  you. 
I'm  afraid  I  am  not  altogether  well, 
not  altogether  happy." 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


»9 


i*'' 


"  I  will  wait  till  he  has  gone,"  the 
planter  replied.  At  the  door  he 
turned  as  if  to  say  something;  but  he 
only  looked  steadily,  sadly  at  her, 
and  then  was  gone. 

She  stood  where  he  had  left  her, 
gazing  with  melancholy  abstraction 
at  the  door  through  which  he  had 
passed.  Thv  :e  were  footsteps  with- 
out in  the  hall-way.  The  door  was 
opened,  and  a  servant  announced 
Monsieur  Laflamme.  The  painter- 
prisoner  entered,  followed  by  the  sol- 
dier. Immediately  afterwards  Mrs. 
Angers,  the  elderly  companion  of 
Miss  Gorham,  sidled  in  gently. 

Rive  Laflamme  bowed  low  to 
Marie  Gorham,  and  then  turned,  and 
said  coolly  to  the  soldier  :  "  You  may 
wait  outside  to-day,  Roupet.  This 
is   my    last    morning's   work.     It    is 


I* 


Ill 


20 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


important,  and  you  splutter  and 
cough.  You  annoy  me.  You  are 
too  exhausting  for  a  studio." 

But  Roupet  answered, "  Monsieur, 
I  have  my  orders." 

"  Nonsense.  This  is  the  Gover- 
nor's house.  I  am  perfectly  safe 
here.  Give  your  orders  a  change  of 
scene.  You  would  better  enjoy  the 
refreshing  coolness  of  the  corridors 
this  morning.  .  .  .  You  won't?  Oh, 
yes,  you  will.  Here's  a  cigarette, — 
there,  take  the  whole  bunch.  I  paid 
too  much  for  them,  but  no  matter ! 
.  .  .  Ah !  pardon  me.  Mademoiselle 
Gorham.  I  forgot  that  you  cannot 
smoke  here,  Roupet ;  but  you  shall 
have  them  all  the  same,  .  .  .  there ! 
Parbleu !  you  are  a  handsome  rascal 
—  if  you  weren't  so  wheezy  !  Come, 
come,  Roupet,  make  yourself  invis- 
ible." 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         21 

The  eyes  of  the  girl  were  on  the 
soldier.  They  did  the  work  better. 
A  warrior  has  a  soft  place  in  his  heart 
for  a  beautiful  woman,  and  this  fel- 
low had  memories.  He  wheeled 
suddenly,  and  disappeared  from  the 
room,  motioning  that  he  would  re- 
main at  the  door. 

The  painting  began,  and  for  half 
an  hour  or  more  was  continued  with- 
out a  word.  In  the  silence  the  placid 
Angers  had  fallen  asleep. 

Nodding  slightly  towards  her.  Rive 
Laflamme  said  in  a  low  voice  to  Ma- 
rie Gorham,  "  Her  hearing  at  its  best 
is  not  remarkable  ?  " 

"  Not  remarkable." 

He  spoke  more  softly.  "  That  is 
good.  Well,  the  portrait  is  done. 
It  has  been  the  triumph  of  my  life  to 
paint  it.     Not  that   first  joy    1    had 


l! 


! 


22 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


when  I  won  the  great  prize  in  Paris 
equals  it.  I  am  glad  ;  and  yet  —  and 
yet  there  was  much  chance  that  it 
would  never  be  finished." 

"Why?" 

"  Carbourd  is  gone." 

"  Yes,  I  know.     Well  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  should  be  gone  also,  were 
it  not  for  this  portrait.  The  chance 
came.  I  was  tempted.  I  determined 
to  finish  this.      I  stayed." 

"  Do  you  think  that  he  will  be 
caught  ?  " 

"  Not  alive.  Carbourd,  the  patriot, 
has  suffered  too  much, —  the  galleys, 
the  convey  the  triangle,  everything  but 
the  guillotine.  Carbourd  has  a  wife 
and  children.  Ah,  yes  !  you  know  all 
about  it.  You  remember  that  letter 
she  sent :  1  can  recall  every  word. 
Can  vou  ?  " 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         23 

The  girl  paused,  and  then  with  a 
rapt  sympathy  in  her  face  repeated 
slowly  :''  I  am  ill,  and  our  children  cry 
for  food.  The  wife  calls  to  her  hus- 
band, my  darlings  say,  '  Will  father 
never  come  home?  '  " 

Marie  Gorham's  eyes  were  moist. 

"  Mademoiselle,  he  was  no  com- 
mon criminal.  He  was  like  a  martyr. 
He  would  grandly  have  died  for  the 
cause.  He  loved  France  too  wildly. 
That  was  his  sin." 

"  Carbourd  is  free,"  she  said  as  if 
to  herself. 

"  He  has  escaped."  His  voice 
now  was  the  smallest  whisper.  "  And 
now  my  time  has  come." 

"When.?  And  where  do  you 
go?" 

"  To-night,  and  to  join  Carbourd, 
if  I  can,  at  the  Pascal  River.  At 
King  Ovi's  Cave,  if  possible." 


24 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


The  girl  was  very  pale.  She 
turned  and  looked  at  Angers,  who 
still  slept.     "  And  then  ?  " 

"  And  then,  as  I  have  said  to  you 
before,  to  the  coast,  to  board  the 
*  Parroquet,*  which  will  lie  off  the 
island  St.  Jerome  three  days  from 
now  to  carry  us  away  into  freedom. 
It  is  all  arranged  by  our  *  Under- 
ground Railway.*  " 

"And  you  tell  me  all  this  to-day 
—  why  ?  "  the  girl  said  falteringly. 

"  Because  you  said  that  you  would 
not  let  a  hunted  fugitive  starve ;  that 
you  would  give  us  horses,  with  which 
we  could  travel  the  Brocken  Path 
across  the  hills.  Here  is  the  plan 
of  the  river  that  you  drew ;  at  this 
point  the  King's  Cave  which  you  dis- 
covered, and  is  known  only  to  your- 
self." 


HIM 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         25 

"  J  ought  not  to  have  given  you 
that  paper ;  but  *' — 

"Ah!  you  will  not  repent  of  a 
noble  action,  of  a  great  good  to  me 
—  Marie  ?  " 

"  Hush,  hush,  Monsieur  La- 
flamme.  Indeed,  you  may  not  speak 
to  me  so.  You  forget.  I  am  sorry 
for  you  :  I  think  you  do  not  deserve 
this  —  banishment.  You  are  unhappy 
here ;  and  I  told  you  of  the  King  s 
Cave, —  that  was  all." 

"  Ah,  no  !  that  is  not  all.  To  be 
free,  that  is  grand,  but  only  that  I 
may  be  a  man  again,  that  I  may 
love  my  art  —  and  you,  that  I  may 
once  again  be  proud  of  France." 

"  Monsieur,    I    repeat,  you    must 
not  speak  so.      Do  not  take  advan- 
tage of  my  willingness  to  serve  you." 
"  Pardon  !  a  thousand  pardons  !  but 


i    '  i'v  I 


I  I 


i  ! 


26         THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

that  was  in  my  heart ;  and  I  hoped, 
I  hoped"— 

"  You  must  not  hope.  I  can  only 
know  you  as  Monsieur  Rive  La- 
flamme,  the  "  — 

"  The  poHtical  convict.  Ah,  yes  ! 
I  know,"  he  said  bitterly  :  "a  convict 
over  whom  the  knout  is  held ;  who 
may  at  any  moment  be  shot  down 
like  a  hare ;  who  has  but  two  prayers 
in  all  the  world, —  to  be  free  in 
France  once  more,  and  to  be  loved 
by  one  " — 

She  interrupted  him :  "  Your  first 
prayer  is  natural." 

"  Natural  ?  Do  you  know  what 
song  we  sang  in  the  cages  of  the 
ship  that  carried  us  into  this  evil  exile 
here  ?  Do  you  know  what  brought 
tears  to  the  eyes  of  the  guards  ? 
what  made  the  captain  and  the  sailors 


Hi 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         27 

turn  their  heads  away  from  us,  lest 
we  should  see  that  their  faces  were 
wet?  what  rendered  the  soldiers 
who  had  fought  us  in  the  Commune 
more  human  for  the  moment?  It 
was  this :  — 

**  *  Adieu,  patrie  ! 
L*onde  est  en  furie. 
Adieu,  patrie 
Azur  ! 
Adieu,  maison,  treille  au  fruit  mur  ! 
Adieu,  les  fruits  d'or  du  vieux  mur  ! 
Adieu,  patrie, 
Ciel,  foret,  prairie  ! 
Adieu,  patrie 
Azur.' 

Well,  Carbourd  sang  that  song  last 
night  so  softly  to  himself;  and  I 
sang  it  also,  with  another, — 

*♦  *  Beyond  the  valley  lives  my  love, — 
Ah,  ah,  the  Winter  Valley  ! 
I  meet  her  where  '  " — 


i 


28        THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

"  Hush  !  Oh,  hush,  monsieur  !  " 
the  girl  said. 

He  looked,  and  saw  that  Angers 
was  waking.  "  If  I  live,"  he  hur- 
riedly whispered,  "  I  shall  be  at  the 
King's  Cave  to-morrow  night.  .  .  . 
And  you  ?  —  the  horses  ?  " 

"  And  you  shall  have  my  help  and 
the  horses."  Then  more  loudly, 
"  Adieu,  monsieur." 

At  that  moment  Madame  Solde 
entered  the  room.  She  acknowl- 
edged Laflamme's  presence  gravely. 

"  It  is  all  done,  madame,"  he  said. 

"  All  done,  monsieur  ?  " 

"  The  portrait,  as  you  may  honor 
it  with  a  glance." 

Madame  Solde  bowed  coldly,  but 
said,  "  It  is  well  done." 

"It  is  my  masterpiece,"  remarked 
the  painter,  musingly,  "  if  my  poor 


s 


m 


i 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         29 

work  can  be  given  such  a  name. 
Will  you  permit  me  to  say  adieu, 
mesdames  ?  I  go  to  join  my  amiable 
and  attentive  companion,  Roupet, 
the  guard."     He  bowed  himself  out. 

Madame  Solde  then  turned,  and 
drew  Marie  aside.  Angers  discreetly 
left. 

The  governor's  wife  drew  the 
girl's  head  back  on  her  shoulder,  and 
kissed  her  on  the  eyes.  "  Marie," 
she  said,  "  Monsieur  Farling  does 
not  seem  happy.  Cannot  you  make 
him  happier  ? " 

With  quivering  lips  the  girl  laid 
her  head  on  the  Frenchwoman's 
breast,  and  said :  "  Ah  !  do  not  ask 
me.  Madame,  I  am  going  home  to- 
dav." 

"  To-day  ?  But,  my  child,  so 
soon  !     I  wished  " — 


i.l 


>1 


30        THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


« 


I  must  go  to-day." 
But  we   had   hoped    you   would 
stay  while  Monsieur  Fading  ** — 

"  Murray  Farling  —  will  —  go  with 
me  —  perhaps." 

"Ah,  my  dear  Marie!"  The 
woman  kissed  the  girl,  and  wondered. 

That  afternoon  Marie  Gorham  was 
riding  across  the  Winter  Valley  to 
her  father's  plantation  at  the  Pascal 
River.  Angers  was  driving  ahead. 
Beside  Marie  rode  Murray  Farling, 
silent  and  attentive.  Arrived  at  the 
homestead,  she  said  to  him  in  the 
shadow  of  the  naoulis^  "  Murray 
Farling,  what  would  you  do  to  prove 
the  love  you  say  you  have  for  me  ? " 

"  All  that  a  man  could  do  I  would 
do." 

"  Can  you  see  the  Semaphore  from 
here?" 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         31 

"  Yes,  there  it  is  clear  against  the 
sky.      Look !  " 

But  the  girl  did  not  look.  She 
touched  her  eyelids  with  her  finger- 
tips, as  though  they  were  fevered, 
and  then  said  :  "  Many  have  escaped. 
They  are  searching  for  Carbourd 
and  "— 

"Yes,  and— Marie?" 
"  And  Monsieur  Laflamme  *' — 
"  Laflamme  !  "  he  said  sharply. 
Then,  noticing  how  at  his  brusque- 
ness  the  paleness  of  her  face  changed 
to  a  startled  flush  for  an  instant,  his 
generosity  conquered,  and  he  added 
gently,  "Well,  I  fancied  he  would 
try;  but  what  do  you  know  about 
that,  Marie  Gorham  ?  " 

"  He  and  Cai  bourd  were  friends. 
They  were  chained  together  in  the 
galleys.     They  lived  —  at  first  —  to- 


^ 


T 


in  P 


■I 


32         THE   HILl.  OF  PAINS 

gether  here.  They  both  desire  to 
return  to  France." 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "  what  do  you 
know  of  this  ?     What  is  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  You  wish  to  know  all  before  you 
will  swear  to  do  what  I  desire." 

"  I  will  do  anything  you  ask,  be- 
cause you  will  not  require  of  me  what 
is  unmanly." 

"  Rive  Laflamme  will  escape  to- 
night, if  possible,  and  join  Carbourd 
on  the  Pascal  River,  at  a  safe  spot 
that  I  know."  She  told  him  of  the 
Cave. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  understand.  You 
would  help  him.     And  I  ?  " 

"You  will  help  me.  .  .  .  You 
will  ?  " 

There  was  a  slight  pause,  and  then 
he  said  :  "  Yes,  I  will.  But  think 
what   this   is   to   an    Englishman,   to 


I 


i 


I 


I 


I'HE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


33 


f 


yourself, —  to  be  accomplice  to  the 
escape  of  a  French  prisoner." 

"  I  gave  a  promise  to  a  man  who 
I  believe  deserves  it,  who  himself 
believed  he  was  a  patriot.  If  you 
were  in  that  position,  and  I  were  a 
Frenchwoman,  I  would  do  the  same 
for  you." 

He  smiled  rather  grimly,  and  said  : 
"  If  it  please  you  that  this  man 
escape,  1  shall  hope  he  may,  and  will 
help  you.  .  .  .  Here  comes  your 
father." 

"  I  could  not  let  him  know,"  she 
said.  "  He  has  no  sympathy  for  any 
one  like  that,  for  any  one  at  all,  I 
think,  but  me.     Ah  me  !  " 

"  There,  don't  be  down-hearted. 
If  you  have  set  your  heart  on  this,  I 
at  least  will  try  to  bring  it  about, 
God   knows !     Now   let   us    be    less 


•  r : 


34        THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

gloomy.  Conspirators  should  smile. 
That  is  the  cue.  Besides,  see,  the 
world  is  bright.  Look  at  the  glow 
upon  the  hills." 

"I  suppose  the  Semaphore  is 
glistening  at  the  Hill  of  Pains,  but 
I  cannot  see  it." 

And  he  did  not  understand  her. 


I 


wtmmmmmmsmimBS 


~!|i 


e 

s 

t 


i 


II. 

A  FEW  hours  after  this  conver- 
sation between  Marie  Gor- 
ham  and  Murray  Fading, 
Rive  Laflamme  sought  to  accomplish 
his  escape.  He  had  lately  borne  a 
letter  from  the  commandant,  which 
permitted  him  to  go  from  point  to 
point  outside  the  peninsula  of  Ducos, 
where  the  least  punished  of  the  polit- 
ical prisoners  were  kept.  He  depend- 
ed somewhat  on  this  for  his  escape. 
Carbourd  had  been  more  heroic, 
but,  then,  Carbourd  was  desperate. 
Rive  Laflamme  believed  more  in 
ability  than  force.  It  was  ability 
and  money  that  had  won  over  the 
captain  of  the  "  Parroquet,"'  coupled 
with  the  connivance  of  an  old  mem- 
ber of  the  Commune,  who  was  now 
a  guard.     This   night  there  was  in- 

35 


n 


mmmmmmm 


I] 


36        THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

creased  alertness,  owing  to  the  escape 
of  Carbourd ;  and  himself,  if  not 
more  closely  watched,  was  at  least 
open  to  quick  suspicion,  owing  to  his 
known  friendship  for  Carbourd.  He 
strolled  about  the  fortified  enclosure, 
chatting  to  fellow-prisoners,  and  wait- 
ing for  the  call  which  should  summon 
them  to  the  huts.  Through  years 
of  studied  good-nature  he  had  come 
to  be  regarded  as  a  contented  pris- 
oner. He  had  no  enemies  save  one 
among  the  guards.  This  man  Maillot 
he  had  offended  by  thwarting  his  con- 
tinued ill-treatment  of  a  young  lad 
who  had  been  one  of  the  condemned 
of  the  Commune,  and  whose  ham- 
mock, at  last,  by  order  of  the  com- 
mandant, was  slung  in  Laflamme's 
hut.  For  this  kindness  and  interpo- 
sition the  lad    was  grateful  and   de- 


» 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         37 

voted.  He  had  been  set  to  labor 
in  the  nickel  mines  ;  but  that  came 
near  to  killing  him,  and  again  through 
Laflamme's  pleadings  he  was  made  a 
prisoner  of  the  first  class,  and  so  re- 
lieved of  all  heavy  tasks.  Not  even 
he  suspected  the  immediate  relations 
of  Laflamme  and  Carbourd  ;  nor  that 
Laflamme  was  preparing  for  escape. 

As  Laflamme  waited  for  the  sum- 
mons to  huts,  a  squad  of  prisoners 
went  clanking  by  him,  manacled. 
They  had  come  from  road-making. 
These  never  heard  from  wife  nor 
child,  nor  held  any  communication 
with  the  outside  world,  nor  had  any 
speech  with  each  other,  save  by  a 
silent  gesture-language  that  eluded 
the  vigilance  of  the  guards.  As  the 
men  passed.  Rive  Laflamme  looked 
at  them   steadily.     They   knew   him 


li 


IV 


t 


I  I 


38        THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

welL  Some  of  them  remembered 
his  speeches  at  the  Place  Vendome. 
They  bore  him  no  ill-will  that  he 
did  not  suffer  as  they.  Laflamme 
made  a  swift  sign  to  a  prisoner  near 
the  rear  of  the  column.  The  man 
smiled,  but  gave  no  answering  token. 
This  was  part  of  the  unspoken  vo- 
cabulary of  imprisonment,  and,  in 
this  instance,  conveyed  the  two 
words :  /  escape. 

A  couple  of  hours  later  Laflamme 
rose  from  his  hammock  in  his  hut, 
and  leant  over  the  young  lad  who 
was  sleeping.  He  touched  him 
gently. 

The  lad  waked :  "  Yes,  yes,  mon- 
sieur." 

"  I  am  going  away,  my  friend." 

"  Away  ?  To  escape  like  Car- 
bourd  ?  '* 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS        39 

"  Yes,  I  hope,  like  Carbourd." 
"May   I    not  go  also,  monsieur? 

I  am  not  afraid." 

"  No,  lad.     If  there  must  be  death, 

one    is    enough.       You     must    stay. 

Good-by." 

"You  will  see  my  mother?  She 
is  old,  and  she  grieves." 

"Yes,  I  will  see  your  mother. 
And  more.  You  shall  be  free.  1 
will  see  to  that.  Be  patient,  little 
comrade.  Nay,  nay,  hush.  ...  No 
thanks.  Adieu  !  "  And  he  put  his 
hands  on  the  lad's  shoulder,  and 
kissed  his  forehead. 

"  I  wish  I  had  died  at  the  Barri- 
cades. But,  yes,  I  will  be  brave,  be 
sure  of  that." 

"You  shall  live  in  France,  which 
is  better.  Once  more,  adieu  !  "  and 
Rive  Laflamme  passed  out. 


Ifl' 


; 


40 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


It  was  raining.  He  knew  that,  if 
he  could  satisfy  the  first  sentinel,  he 
should  stand  a  better  chance  of  es- 
cape, since  he  had  had  so  much  free- 
dom of  late ;  and  to  be  passed  by 
one  would  help  with  others.  He 
went  softly,  but  he  was  soon  chal- 
lenged. 

"Halt     Who  ^oes  there?" 

"Condemned  of  the  Commune  — 
by  order.'* 

"  Whose  order  ?  " 

"  That  of  the  commandant." 

"  Advance  order." 

The  sentinel  knew  him.  "  Ah  ! 
Laflamme,"  he  said,  and  raised  the 
point  of  his  bayonet.  The  paper 
was  produced.  It  did  not  entitle 
him  to  go  about  at  night,  and  cer- 
tainly not  beyond  the  enclosure  with- 
out a  guard  :  it  was  insufficient.      In 


i:- 


$ 


THK  HILI.  OK  PAINS         41 

unfolding  the  paper,  Laflamme  pur- 
posely dropped  it  in  the  mud.  He 
hastily  picked  it  up,  and,  in  doing  so, 
smeared  it.  He  wiped  it,  leaving 
the  signature  comparatively  plain, — 
nothing  else. 

"Well,"  said  the  sentinel,  "the 
signature  is  right,  but  it  is  not  like 
an  order.     Where  do  you  go  ?  " 

"  To  Government  House." 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  should  let 
you  pass.  But  —  well,  look  out  that 
the  next  sentinel  doesn't  bayonet  you. 
You  came  suddenly  upon  me." 

The  next  sentinel  was  a  Kanaka. 
The  previous  formula  was  repeated. 
The  Kanaka  examined  the  paper  long, 
and  then  said,  "  You  cannot  pass." 

"  But  the  other  sentinel  passed  me. 
Would  you  get  him  into  trouble?  " 

The    Kanaka    frowned,    hesitated. 


T 


42         THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

then  said :  "  That  is  another  matter. 
Well,  pass  !  " 

Twice  more  the  same  formula  and 
arguments  were  used.  At  last  he 
heard  a  voice  in  challenge  that  he 
knew.  It  was  that  of  Maillot.  This 
was  a  more  difficult  game.  His  or- 
der was  taken  with  a  malicious  sneer 
by  the  sentinel.  At  that  instant 
Laflamme  threw  his  arms  swiftly- 
round  the  other,  clapped  a  hand  on 
his  mouth,  and  with  a  dexterous 
twist  of  leg  threw  him  backward, 
till  it  seemed  as  if  the  spine  of  the 
soldier  must  break.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  struggle  against  this  trick  of 
wrestling  which  Laflamme  had  learned 
from  a  famous  Cornish  wrestler,  in  a 
summer  spent  on  the  English  coast. 

"  If  you  shout  or  speak,  I  will  kill 
you,"  he  said  to   Maillot,  and  then 


Ml 


m 


T 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         43 

dropped  him  heavily  on  the  ground, 
where  he  Jay  senseless.  The  other 
stooped  down,  and  felt  his  heart. 
"Alive!"  he  said,  then  seized  the 
rifle  and  plunged  into  the  woods. 
The  moon  at  that  moment  broke 
through  the  clouds,  and  he  saw  the 
Semaphore  like  a  ghost  pointing 
towards  Pascal  River.  He  waved 
his  hand  towards  his  old  prison,  and 
with  tightly  pressed  lips  sped  away. 

But  others  were  thinking  of  the 
Semaphore  at  this  moment:  others 
saw  it  indistinct  yet  melancholy  in 
the  moonlight.  The  governor  and 
his  wife  saw  it,  and  Madame  Solde 
said :  "  Alfred,  I  shall  be  glad  when 
I  shall  see  that  no  more,  and  all  no 
more." 

"  My  wife,  you  have  too  much 
feeling." 


(    1 


I 


i   i 


i 


!     ! 


44 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


"  I  suppose  Marie  makes  me  think 
more  of  it  to-day.  She  wept  this 
morning  at  the  thought  of  all  this 
misery  and  punishment." 

"You  think  that.  Well,  perhaps 
something  more  " — 

"  What  more? " 

"  A  condemned  of  the  Commune, 
Rive  Laflamme." 

"No,  no!  it  is  impossible." 

"  Indeed,  it  is  as  I  say.  My  wife, 
you  are  blind.  I  chanced  to  see  him 
with  her  yesterday.  I  should  have 
prevented  him  coming  to-day  ;  but  I 
knew  it  was  his  last  day  with  the 
portrait,  and  that  all  should  end 
here." 

"  We  have  done  wrong  in  this, — 
the  poor  child !  Besides,  she  has,  I 
fear,  another  sorrow  coming.  It 
showed   itself  to  me  to-day  for  the 


J;: 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


45 


first  time."  Then  she  whispered  to 
him;  and  he  started  and  sighed,  and 
said  at  last :  — 

"  But  it  must  be  saved  —  by ! 

it  shall  be  saved.  And  you  love  her 
so,  my  wife." 

And  at  that  moment  Marie  Gor- 
ham  was  standing  in  the  open  window 
of  the  library  of  Pascal  House.  She 
had  been  thinking  of  her  recent  visit 
to  the  King's  Cave,  where  she  had 
left  food,  and  of  the  fact  that  Car- 
bourd  was  not  there.  She  raised 
her  face  towards  the  moon,  and 
sighed.  She  was  thinking  of  some- 
thing else.  She  was  not  merely  sen- 
timental; for  she  said,  as  if  she  had 
heard  the  words  of  the  governor 
and  Madame  Solde,  "  Oh,  if  it  could 
be  saved ! " 

There  was  a  rustle  in  the  shrubbery 


46        THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

near  her.  She  turned  towards  the 
sound.  A  man  came  quickly  towards 
her.  "  I  am  Carbourd,"  he  said.  "  I 
could  not  find  the  way  to  the  Cave. 
They    were   after    me.      They    have 

tracked  me.     Tell  me  quick  how  to 
If 

go- 
She   swiftly  gave    him    directions, 

and  he  darted  away.  Again  there 
was  a  rustle  in  the  leaves,  and  a  man 
stepped  forth.  Something  glistened 
in  his  hand, —  a  rifle,  though  she 
could  not  see  it  plainly.  It  was 
levelled  at  the  flying  figure  of  Car- 
bourd. There  was  a  report.  Marie 
Gorham  started  forward  with  her 
hands  on  her  temples  and  a  sharp 
cry.  She  started  forward  into  — 
absolute  darkness.  But  there  was  a 
man's  footsteps  going  swiftly  by  her. 
Why  was  it  so  dark  ?  She  stretched 
out  her  hands  with  a  moan- 


.  t 


E  ii 


fe 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         47 

"  O  mother !  O  mother !  "  she 
cried.     "  I  am  blind  !  " 

But  her  mother  was  sleeping  unre- 
sponsive beyond  the  dirk, —  beyond 
all  dark.  It  was  perhaps  natural  that 
she  should  cry  to  the  dead,  and  not  to 
the  living. 

Marie  Gorham  was  blind.  She 
had  known  it  was  coming ;  and  it  had 
tried  her,  as  it  would  have  tried  any 
of  the  race  of  women.  She  had, 
when  she  needed  it  most,  put  love 
from  her,  and  would  not  let  her  own 
heart  speak,  even  to  herself.  She 
had  sought  to  help  one  who  loved 
her,  and  to  fully  prove  the  other  — 
though  the  proving  she  knew  was 
not  necessary  —  before  the  darkness 
came;  but  here  it  was  suddenly 
achieved  by  the  sharp  disturbance  of 
a  rifle-shot.     It  would   have  sent  a 


t 


1* 


I 


48        THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

shudder  to  a  stronger  heart  than  hers 
that,  in  reply  to  her  call  on  her  dead 
mother,  there  came  from  the  trees 
the  shrill  laugh  of  the  mopoke, — 
the  sardonic  bird  of  the  South. 

As  she  stood  there,  with  this 
tragedy  enveloping  her,  the  dull 
boom  of  a  cannon  came  across  the 
valley.  "  From  Ducos,"  she  said. 
"He  has  escaped.  God  help  us 
all !  "  And  she  turned  and  groped 
her  way  into  the  room  she  had  left. 

She  felt  for  a  chair,  and  sat  down. 
She  must  think  of  what  she  now 
was.  She  wondered  if  Carbourd  was 
killed.  She  listened,  and  thought 
not,  since  there  was  no  sound  with- 
out. But  she  knew  that  the  house 
would  be  roused.  She  bowed  her 
head  in  her  hands.  Surely,  she  might 
weep  a   little   for   herself, —  she  who 


1 


$ 


^  THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         49 

had  been  so  troubled  for  others.  It 
is  strange,  but  she  thought  of  her 
flowers  and  birds,  and  wondered  how 
she  should  tend  them ;  of  her  own 
room  which  faced  the  north, —  the 
English  north  that  she  loved  so 
well ;  of  her  horse,  and  marvelled 
if  he  would  know  that  she  could  not 
see  him  ;  and,  lastly,  of  a  widening 
horizon  of  pain,  spread  before  the 
eyes  of  her  soul,  in  which  her  father 
and  another  moved. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  sat  there 
for  hours :  it  was  in  reality  minutes 
only.  A  firm  step,  and  the  opening 
of  a  door  roused  her.  She  did  not 
turn  her  head.  What  need  ?  She 
knew  the  step.  There  was  almost  a 
touch  of  ironical  smiling  at  her  lips, 
as  she  thought  how  she  must  hear 
and  feel  things  only,  in   the  future. 


! 


50        THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

A  voice  said  :  "  Miss  Gorham  — 
Marie,  are  you  here  ?  ** 

"Yes,  I  am  here." 

"  I'll  strike  a  match,  so  that  you 
can  see  I'm  not  a  bush-ranger.  There 
has  been  shooting  in  the  grounds. 
Did  you  hear  it?  " 

"  Yes.  A  soldier  firing  at  Car- 
bourd." 

"You  saw  him  ?  " 

"Yes.  He  could  not  find  the 
Cave.  I  directed  him.  Immediately 
after  he  was  fired  upon." 

"  He  can't  have  been  hit.  There 
are  no  signs  of  him.  .  .  .  There, 
that's  lighter  and  better,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Perhaps.  ...  I  do  not  know." 

She  had  risen,  but  she  did  not  turn 
towards  him.  He  came  nearer  to 
her.  The  enigmatical  tone  struck 
him    strangely ;    but    he   could    find 


i8  ! 


' 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         51 

nothing  less  commonplace  to  say 
than,  "You  don't  prefer  the  exagger- 
ated gloaming,  do  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not  prefer  the  gloam- 
ing; but  why  should  not  one  be 
patient  ? " 

"  Be  patient !  **  he  repeated,  and 
came  nearer  still.  "  Are  you  hurt  or 
angry  ? " 

"  I  am  hurt,  but  not  angry.** 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  or  is  it  I  ?  '* 

"It  is  not  you.  You  are  very 
good  and  noble.  It  is  nobody  but 
God.  ...  I  am  hurt,  because  he  is 
angry,  perhaps.*' 

"  Tell  me  what  is  the  matter. 
Look  at  me."  He  faced  her  now, — 
faced  her  eyes  looking  blindly  straight 
before  her. 

"  Murray  Fading,"  she  said,  and 
she  put   her   hand   out  slightly,  not 


in 


! 


ii^i 


i-J 


Sa        THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

exactly  to  him,  but  as  if  to  protect 
him  from  the  blow  which  she  herself 
must  deal,   "  I    am    looking  at   you 


now. 


Yes,  yes,  but  so  strangely,  and 
not  in  my  eyes." 

"  I  cannot  look  into  your  eyes,  be- 
cause, Murray,  I  am  blind."  And 
her  hand  went  further  out  towards 
him. 

He  took  it  silendy,  and  pressed  it 
to  his  bosom  as  he  saw  that  she 
spoke  true ;  and  the  shadow  of  this 
thing  fell  on  him.  The  hand  held 
to  his  breast  felt  how  he  was  trem- 
bling from  the  shock. 

"  Sit  down,  dear  friend,"  she  said, 
"  and  I  will  tell  you  all ;  but  do  not 
hold  my  hand  so,  or  I  cannot." 

And  sitting  there  face  to  face,  with 
deep  furrows  growing  in  his  counte- 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


53 


nance,  and  a  quiet  sorrow  spreading 
upon  her  cheek  and  forehead,  she 
told  the  story  how,  since  her  child- 
hood, her  sight  had  played  her  false 
now  and  then,  and  within  the  past 
month  had  grown  steadily  uncertain. 
"  And  now,"  she  said  at  last,  "  I  am 
blind.  ...  I  think  I  should  like 
to  tell  my  father  —  if  you  please. 
Then,  when  I  have  seen  him  and 
poor  Angers,  if  you  would  come 
again  !  There  is  work  to  be  done. 
I  hoped  it  would  be  finished  before 
this  came  ;  but — there,  good  friend, 
do  go.     I  will  sit  here  quietly." 

She  could  not  see  his  face,  but  she 
heard  him  say,  "  My  love,  my  love," 
very  softly,  as  he  rose  to  go ;  and 
she  smiled  sadly  to  herself.  She 
folded  her  hands  in  her  lap,  and 
thought,  not   bitterly,   not   listlessly, 


I     I 

I  .1 


■  'I 


i      ■: 


'.\'< 


54         THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

but  deeply.  She  wanted  to  consider 
all  cheerfully  now:  she  tried  to  do 
so.  She  was  musing  among  those 
flying  perceptions,  those  nebulous 
facts  of  a  new  life,  experienced  for 
the  first  time.  She  was  now  not  her- 
self as  she  had  been:  another  woman 
was  born ;  and  she  was  feeling  care- 
fully along  the  unfamiliar  path  which 
she  must  tread.  She  was  not  glad 
that  these  words  ran  through  her 
mind  continuously  at  first :  — 

"y/  /ami  of  darkness  as  darkness  it- 
self y  and  of  the  shadow  of  death  without 
any  order ^  and  where  the  light  is  dark- 


ness. 


Her  brave  nature  rose  against  the 
moody  spirit  which  sought  to  take 
possession  of  her,  and  she  cried  out 
in  her  heart  valiantly  :  "  But  there  is 
order,   there   is   order.     I    shall  feel 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         55 

things  as  they  ought  to  be.  I  think 
I  could  tell  now  what  was  true  and 
what  was  false  in  man  or  woman :  it 
would  be  in  their  presence,  not  in 
their  faces." 

She  stopped  speaking.  She  heard 
footsteps.  Her  father  entered.  Mur- 
ray Farling  had  done  his  task  gently, 
but  the  old  planter,  selfish  and  hard 
as  he  was,  loved  his  daughter;  and 
the  meeting  was  bitter  for  him.  The 
prop  of  his  pride  seemed  shaken  be- 
yond recovery.  But  the  girl's  calm 
comforted  them  all,  and  poignancy 
became  dull  pain.  Before  parting 
for  the  night,  Marie  said  to  Farling : 
"  This  is  what  I  wish  you  to  do  for 
me :  to  bring  over  two  of  your  horses 
to  Point  Assumption  on  the  river. 
There  is  a  glen  beyond  that,  as  you 
know,  and  from  it  runs  the  steep  and 


:, 


fi: 


I 


56        THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

dangerous  Brocken  Path  across  the 
hills.  I  wish  you  to  wait  there  until 
Monsieur  Laflamme  and  Carbourd 
come  by  the  river :  that  is  their  only 
chance.  If  they  get  across  the  hills, 
they  can  easily  reach  the  sea.  I  know 
that  two  of  your  horses  have  been 
over  the  path  :  they  are  sure-footed  ; 
they  would  know  it  in  the  night.  Is 
it  not  so  ?  *' 

"  It  is  so.  There  are  not  a  dozen 
horses  in  the  colony  that  could  be 
trusted  on  it  at  night,  but  mine  are 
safe.     I  shall  do  all  you  wish." 

She  put  out  both  her  hands  and 
felt  for  his  shoulders,  and  let  them 
rest  there  for  a  moment,  saying ;  "  I 
ask  much,  and  I  can  give  no  reward 
except  the  gratitude  of  a  girl  who 
would  rather  die  than  break  a  prom- 
ise.     It  isn't  much,  but  it  is  all  that 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


57 


is  worth  your  having.  Good-night. 
Good-by ! " 

"  Good-night.  Good-by,"  he  gen- 
tly replied ;  but  he  said  something 
beneath  his  breath  that  sounded  de- 
termined, devoted,  noble. 

The  next  morning,  while  her  father 
was  gone  to  consult  the  chief  army 
surgeon  at  Noumea,  Marie  strolled 
with  Angers  in  the  grounds.  At 
length  she  said,  "  Angers,  take  me 
to  the  river,  and  then  on  down,  until 
we  come  to  the  high  banks."  With 
her  hand  on  Angers*s  arm,  and  in  her 
face  that  passive  gentleness  which 
grows  so  sweetly  from  sightless  eyes 
till  it  covers  all  the  face,  they  passed 
slowly  towards  the  river.  When 
they  came  to  the  higher  banks,  cov- 
ered with  dense  scrub.  Angers  paused, 
and  told  Marie  where  they  were. 


1  i 


f,   '-' 


1,  ^>^ 


58 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


"  Find  me  the  she-oak  tree/*  the 
girl  said :  "  there  is  only  one,  you 
know." 

"  Here  it  is,  my  dear.  There, 
your  hand  is  on  it  now." 

"  Thank  you.  Wait  here.  Angers, 
I  shall  be  back  presently.'* 

"  But,  oh,  my  dear  ** — 

"  Please  do  as  I  say,  Angers,  and 
do  not  worry.**  And  the  girl  pushed 
aside  some  bushes,  and  was  lost  to 
view.  She  pressed  along  vigilantly 
by  a  descending  path,  until  her  feet 
touched  rocky  ground.  She  nodded 
to  herself,  then,  pressing  between  two 
bits  of  jutting  rock  at  her  right,  im- 
mediately stood  at  the  entrance  to 
a  cave,  hidden  completely  from  the 
river  and  from  the  banks  above.  At 
the  entrance,  for  which  she  felt,  she 
paused,  and  said  aloud,  "Is  there  any 


ill 


'i 


m 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         59 

one  here  ? "  Something  clicked  far 
within  the  cave.  It  sounded  like  a 
rifle.  Then  stealthy  steps  were 
heard,  and  a  voice  said :  — 

"  Ah,  mademoiselle  !  " 

"  You  are  Carbourd  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle,  as  you  see." 

"  You  escaped  safely,  then,  from 
the  rifle-shot?  Where  is  the  sol- 
dier ? " 

"He  fell  into  the  river.  He  was 
drowned." 

"  You  are  telling  me  the  truth  ?  ** 

"Yes,  he  stumbled  in,  and  sank  — 
on  my  soul !  " 

"  You  mean  you  did  not  try  to  save 
him." 

"  He  lied  and  got  me  six  months 
in  irons  once ;  he  called  down  on  my 
back  one  hundred  and  fifty  lashes  a 
year  ago ;  he  had  me  kept  on  bread 


60        THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

and  water,  and  degraded  to  the  fourth 
class,  where  I  could  never  hear  from 
my  wife  and  children,  never  write  to 
them.  I  lost  one  eye  in  the  quarries 
because  he  made  me  stand  too  near 
a  lighted  fuse  ** — 

"  Poor  man  !  poor  man  !  "  she  said. 
"  You  found  the  food  I  left  here  for 
you  r 

"  Yes,  God  bless  you  !  And  my 
wife  and  children  will  bless  you,  too, 
if  I  see  France  again." 

"  You  know  where  the  boat  is  P  " 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"  When  you  reach  Point  Assump- 
tion you  will  find  horses  there  to  take 
you  across  the  Brocken  Path.  Mon- 
sieur Laflamme  knows.  I  hope  that 
you  will  both  escape ;  that  you  will 
be  happy  in  France  with  your  wife 
and  children,  and  Monsieur  Laflamme 
with  his  art." 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         6i 

"  You  will  not  come  here  again  ?  " 

"  No.  If  Monsieur  Laflamme 
should  not  arrive,  .  .  .  and  you  should 
go  alone,  leave  one  pair  of  oars  :  then 
I  shall  know.     Good-by." 

"  Good-by,  mademoiselle.  A 
thousand  times  I  will  pray  for  you. 
Ah,  mon  Dieu  I  take  care !  you  are 
on  the  edge  of  the  great  tomb." 

She  stood  perfectly  still.  At  her 
feet  was  a  dark  excavation  where  was 
the  skeleton  of  Ovi,  the  king.  This 
was  the  hidden  burial-place  of  the 
modern  Hiawatha  of  these  savage 
islands,  unknown  even  to  the  natives 
themselves,  and  kept  secret  with  a 
half-superstitious  reverence  by  Marie 
Gorham,  who  had  discovered  it  a  few 
months  before. 

"  I  had  forgotten,"  she  said. 
"Please  take  my  hand  and  set  me 
right  at  the  entrance." 


BMB 


:i' 


I'i: 


62        THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

"  Your  hand,  mademoiselle  ?  Mine 
is  so  — !     It  is  not  dark." 

"  It  is  dark  to  me,  for  I  am  blind." 

"Blind!  blind!  Oh,  the  pitiful 
thing!  Since  when,  since  when, 
mademoiselle  ? " 

"  Since  the  soldier  fired  on  you, — 
the  shock.  ..." 

The  convict  knelt  at  her  feet. 
"  Ah,  mademoiselle,  you  are  a  good 
angel.  I  shall  die  of  grief.  To 
think  —  for  such  as  me  ! " 

"  You  will  live  to  love  your  wife 
and  children.  This  is  the  will  of 
God  with  me.  .  .  .  Am  I  in  the 
path  now  ?     Ah,  thank  you." 

"  But  Monsieur  Laflamme, —  this 
will  be  a  great  sorrow  to  him." 

Twice  she  seemed  about  to  speak, 
but  nothing  came  save  good-by. 
Then    she    crept    cautiously     away 


' 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         63 

among  the  bushes  and  along  the  nar- 
row path,  the  eyes  of  the  convict  fol- 
lowing her.  She  had  done  a  deed 
which,  she  understood,  the  world 
would  blame  her  for  if  it  knew,  would 
call  culpable  or  foolishly  heroic ;  but 
she  smiled,  because  she  understood 
also  that  the  spotless  heart  and  per- 
fect mind  cast  out  fear,  and  are  safe 
among  the  lions. 

At  this  time  Rive  Laflamme  was 
stealing  watchfully  through  the  trop- 
ical scrub,  where  hanging  vines  tore 
his  hands,  and  the  sickening  perfume 
of  jungle  flowers  overcame  him  more 
than  the  hard  journey  which  he  had 
undergone  during  the  past  twelve 
hours. 

Several  times  he  had  been  within 
voice  of  his  pursuers,  and  once  a 
Kanaka  scout  passed  close    to   him. 


I 


s 


If 


64        THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

He  had  had  nothing  to  eat,  he  had 
had  no  sleep,  he  suffered  from  a 
wound  in  his  neck  caused  by  the 
broken  protruding  branch  of  a  tree ; 
but  he  had  courage,  and  he  was 
struggling  for  liberty, —  a  tolerably 
sweet  thing  when  one  hasn't  it.  He 
found  the  Cave  at  last,  and  with  far 
greater  ease  than  Carbourd  had  done, 
because  he  knew  the  ground  better, 
and  his  instinct  was  keener.  His 
greeting  to  Carbourd  was  noncha- 
lantly cordial. 

"Well,  you  see,  comrade.  King 
Ovi's  Cave  is  a  reality." 

"Yes,  so." 

"  I  saw  the  boat.  It  is  safe.  The 
horses  ?     What  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  The  horses  also  will  be  at  Point 
Assumption  to-night." 

"  Then  we  go  to-night.     We  shall 


!:!i 


PIL^' 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         65 

have  to  run  the  chances  of  rifles 
along  the  shore  at  a  range  something 
short ;  but  we  have  done  that  before 
at  the  Barricades,  eh,  Carbourd  ?  " 

"At  the  Barricades.  ...  It  is  a 
pity  that  we  cannot  take  Citizen 
Louise  Michel  with  us." 

"  Yes,  a  pity ;  but  her  time  will 
come." 

"  She  has  no  children  crying  and 
starving  at  home  like  " — 

"  Like  yours,  Carbourd, —  like 
yours.  Well,  I  am  starving  here. 
Give  me  something  to  eat.  .  .  .  Ah ! 
that  is  good  —  excellent!  What 
more  can  we  want  but  freedom  ? 
Till  the  darkness  of  tyruany  be  over- 
past,—  overpast,  eh  ?  " 

This  speech  brought  another 
weighty  matter  to  Carbourd's  mind. 
He  said, — 


b:    .j^Baa&dwi 


^aiigsMmimatmMttmmit 


[u.,. 


i 


66        THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

"  I  do  not  wish  to   distress    you, 

but  "— 

"Now,  Carbourd,  what  is  the 
matter  ?  Faugh  !  This  place  smells 
musty.  What's  that?  A  tomb? 
.  .  .  Speak  out,  Citizen  Carbourd." 

"It  is  this:  Mademoiselle  Gor- 
ham  is  blind."  And  then  Carbourd 
told  the  story,  with  a  great  anxiety  in 
his  words. 

"  The  poor  mademoiselle  !  Is  it 
so  ?  A  thousand  pities !  So  kind, 
so  young,  so  beautiful !  Ah  !  I  am 
distressed  ;  and  I  finished  her  portrait 
yesterday.  Yes,  I  remember  her 
eyes  looked  too  bright,  and  then 
again  too  dull ;  but  I  thought  that  it 
was  excitement,  and  so  —  that  1  " 

Rive  Laflamme's  regret  was  real 
enough  up  to  a  certain  point;  but, 
in  sincerity  and  value,  it  was  chasms 


I 

m 


[m 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


67 


below  that  of  Murray  Farling,  who 
even  now  was  getting  two  horses 
ready  to  give  the  Frenchmen  their 
chance. 

After  a  pause  Laflamme  said : 
"  She  will  not  come  here  again,  Car- 
bourd?  No?  Ah,  well !  perhaps  it 
is  better  so ;  but  I  should  have  liked 
to  speak  my  thanks  to  her.  She  is 
so  kind ! " 

That  night  Marie  Gorham  sat  by 
the  window  of  the  sitting-room,  with 
the  light  burning,  and  Angers  asleep 
in  a  chair  beside  her, —  sat  till  long 
after  midnight,  in  the  thought  that 
Laflamme,  if  he  had  reached  the 
Cave,  would  perhaps  dare  something 
to  see  her  and  bid  her  good-by. 
She  would  of  course  have  told  him 
not  to  come ;  but  he  was  chivalrous, 
and  then  her  blindness  would  touch 


i\ 


'i 


I 

1 


I 


11    ( 


mi 


68         THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

him.  .  .  .  Yet,  as  the  hours  went  by, 
the  thought  came :  Was  he,  was  he 
so  chivalrous  ?  Was  he  altogether 
true?  .  .  .  He  did  not  come.  The 
next  morning  Angers  took  her  to 
where  the  boat  had  been ;  but  it  was 
gone,  and  no  oars  were  left  behind. 
So  both  had  sought  escape  in  it. 

She  went  to  the  Cave.  She  took 
Angers  with  her  now.  Upon  a  wall 
a  paper  was  found.  It  was  a  note 
from  Rive  Laflamme.  She  asked 
Angers  to  give  it  to  her  without 
reading  it.  She  put  it  in  her  pocket, 
and  kept  it  there  until  she  should 
see  Murray  Farling.  He  should 
read  it  to  her.  And  she  said  some- 
times, as  she  felt  the  letter  in  her 
pocket:  "He  loved  me.  It  was  the 
least  that  I  could  do.  I  am  so 
glad."     Yet  she  was   not  altogether 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


69 


glad,  either  ;  and  disturbing  thoughts 
crossed  the  parallels  of  her  pleasure. 
It  was  the  governor  and  Madame 
Solde  who  first  brought  news  of  the 
complete  escape  of  the  prisoners. 
They  had  fled  across  the  hills  by  the 
Brocken  Path,  and,  though  pursued 
after  getting  across,  reached  the  coast 
and  were  taken  aboard  the  "  Parro- 
quet,"  which  sailed  away  with  them. 
It  is  probable  that  Marie*s  visitors 
had  their  suspicions  regarding  the 
escape ;  but  they  were  gentle,  and 
did  not  make  her  uncomfortable. 
The  fact  is,  the  pity  of  the  governor 
and  his  wife  was  verv  acute ;  and  the 
cause  of  its  special  acuteness  the 
governor  made  known,  shortly  after, 
to  Murray  Farling.  But  just  now 
they  were  most  concerned  for  the 
girl's  physical  misfortune.     Madame 


■ 


' 


1 

.    1.- 


1^ 
I 


ir  i 


JO 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


Solde  said  to  her,  "My  poor  Marie, 
does  it  feel  so  dreadful,  so  dark  ?  ** 

"  No,  madame,  it  is  not  so  bad. 
There  are  many  things  which  one 
does  not  wish  to  see,  and  one  is 
spared  that/' 

"  But  you  will  see  again, —  when 
you  go  to  England,  to  great  physi- 
cians there.'* 

"Then  I  should  have  three  lives, 
madame, —  when  I  could  see,  when 
sight  died,  and  when  sight  was  born 
again.     How  wise  I  should  be  !  " 

They  left  her  sadly,  and  after  a 
time  she  heard  footsteps  that  she 
knew.  She  came  forward,  and 
greeted  Murray  Fading. 

"Ah!"  she  said:  "all  has  been 
successful,  I  know ;  and  you  were 
so  good." 

"Yes,   they    are    safe    upon    the 


m 


m^ 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         71 

seas/*  he  gently  replied ;  and  he 
kissed  her  hand. 

"  Now  you  will  read  this  letter  for 
me.  Monsieur  Laflamme  left  it  be- 
hind in  the  Cave." 

With  a  pang  he  took  it,  and  read 
thus : — 

Dear  Friend^ —  My  grief  for  your  misfortune 
is  inexpressible.  If  it  were  possible,  I  should 
say  so  in  person  ;  but  there  is  clanger,  and  we 
must  fly  at  once.  You  shall  hear  from  me  in 
full  gratitude  when  I  am  in  safety.  ...  I  owe 
you  so  many  thanks,  as  I  give  you  so  much 
of  devotion  .  .  .  But  there  is  the  future  for 
all.  .  .  .  Mademoiselle,  I  kiss  your  hand. 

Always  yours. 

Rive  Laflamme. 

"  Murray  !  "  she  said  sadly,  when 
he  had  finished. 

He  started  at  the  word:  "Yes, 
yes,  Marie." 


!  J 


72        THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 

**'  I  seem  to  have  new  knowledge 
of  things,  now  that  I  am  blind.  I 
think  that  letter  is  not  altogether 
real,  though  it  has  gratitude.  But 
you  would  have  done  it  differently. 
You  see,  that  was  his  way  of  saying 
—  good-by." 

What  Murray  Farling  thought, 
what  he  knew  from  the  governor, 
whom  he  had  met  on  his  way  to 
Pascal  House,  he  dared  not  say. 
He  was  silent. 

She  continued :  "  I  could  not  bear 
that  one  who  was  innocent  of  any 
real  crime,  and  who  was  a  great 
artist,  and  who  believed  himself  to 
be  a  patriot,  should  suffer  so  here. 
When  he  asked  me,  I  helped  him. 
Yet  I  suppose  I  was  selfish,  wasn't 
I  ?  —  it  was  because  he  loved  me." 

Murray     Farling     spoke     breath- 


Hi- 

si! 


^ 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS         73 

lessly,  "  And  because  —  you  loved 
him,  Marie?  " 

Her  head  was  lifted  quickly,  as 
though  she  saw,  and  was  looking 
him  in  the  eyes.  "  Oh,  no !  oh, 
no  !  "  she  cried.  "  I  never  loved 
him.  I  was  deeply  sorry  for  him, — 
that  was  all." 

"  Marie,  Marie,"  he  said  very 
gently,  while  she  shook  her  head  a 
little  pitifully,  "  did  you  love  any  one 
else  ?  " 

She  was  silent  for  a  space,  and  then 
she  said:  "Yes.  O  Murray,  I 
am  so  sorry  for  your  sake  that  I  am 
blind,  and  cannot  marry  you." 

"  But,  my  darling,  you  shall  not 
always  be  blind:  you  shall  see  again, 
I  hope.  And  you  shall  marry  me 
also.  As  if — O  Marie,  as  if 
one's  love  could  live  but  by  the 
sight  of  the  eyes  !  " 


74 


THE  HILL  OF  PAINS 


! 


"  Poor  brave  Murray !  .  .  .  Blind, 
I  could  not  marry  you.  It  would 
not  be  just  to  you." 

He  smiled  with  a  happy  hopeful 
determination :  "  But  if  you  should 
see  again  ? " 

"  Oh,  then,  dear  .  .  ." 

And  she  married  him  ;  and  in  time 
her  sight  returned,  though  not  com- 
pletely. And  Murray  Farling  never 
told  her,  as  the  governor  had  told 
him,  that  Rive  Laflamme,  when  he 
was  in  New  Caledonia,  had  a  wife  in 
Paris ;  and  he  is  man  enough  to 
hope  that  she  may  never  know. 


III 

v; 
IP 

!l, 
m' 

it,'  ' 

i 

Iff; 


i 


The  Cave  of  Crys 


1'  .i 


11 


if   * 
(I   i 


i 


The  Cave  of  Crys 

I. 

GUST  AVE  FLAVELLE  had 
a  strong  sense  of  humor. 
That  was  why  his  imprison- 
ment in  New  Caledonia  for  political 
crimes,  in  company  with  his  friend 
and  compatriot  Henri  Rochefort,  had 
been  relieved  of  some  of  its  deadly 
ennui  and  despair.  It  was  how  he 
managed  to  make  friends  among  the 
liberes  and  recidivistes^  as  among  the 
officers  and  gendarmes.  It  was  why 
the  corner  of  the  island  set  apart  for 
political  prisoners,  behind  an  omin- 
ous escarpment  of  sea  and  bayonets, 
was  less  dreary  for  all  than  it  other- 
wise  would    have   been ;  why   Junie 

77 


»1 

I' 


78         THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

Cavour  or  La  Grive,  the  Cricket,  as 
she  was  called,  the  sometime  keeper 
of  the  secret  of  Monsieur  le  Com- 
mandant, laughed  in  his  face  at  an 
inspection  one  day,  patted  him  on 
the  shoulder,  and  called  him  un  beau 
garcon;  why,  perhaps,  as  a  sequence, 
she  came  again  under  the  very  noses 
of  the  guards, —  for  did  she  not  al- 
ways bear  the  commandant's  per- 
mission to  go  where  she  listed?  — 
and  said  to  him  gayly  and  meaningly 
that  the  cage  of  the  starling  was  not 
built  for  the  eagle.  It  was  why  on 
the  motionless,  tropic  sea,  with  but  a 
cupful  of  water  left  for  her,  and  no 
food  at  all  for  either,  bereft  of  sail 
and  helpless  of  arm,  he  had  heart 
enough  to  say  in  a  cheery,  if  thirstily 
arid  voice :  "  Ah,  Junie,  ma  cherie^ 
you  shall   see !     There  will   be  land 


U. 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 


79 


or  a  ship  to-morrow,  or  the  next  day, 
truly !  " 

Junie  Cavour,  sitting  still  and 
nerveless  in  the  stern,  only  raised 
her  head  with  a  smiling  languor,  and 
moved  her  hand  to  her  companion 
with  an  assent  which  was  half  protest, 
and  said  nothing.  He  continued : 
"  Ma  foi,  what  a  mother  France  is  ! 
i  o-day  she  is  the  lover  of  those 
whom  princes  cherish :  to-morrow 
she  cherishes  those  who  hate  princes. 
It  is  a  strange  nation.  Yesterday 
Paris  said :  '  Voila !  The  pen  of 
Gustave  Flavelle  —  it  is  good  !  * 
Now  with  droll  distress  she  cries, 
'Gustave  Flavelle! — ah,  most  exe- 
crable !  *  Well,  it  is  no  matter.  .  .  . 
I  am  free.  That  is  much.  Why  am 
I  free  ?  Because  Junie  Cavour  made 
one,     two,    three,    many    guards    so 


8o 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 


■ ;: 


!  i 


blind  !  and  put  out  to  sea  with  me 
on  the  night  of  the  great  banquet  at 
the  Hotel  du  Gouverneur.  Why  was 
La  Grive  so  minded  to  suffer  the 
perils  of  the  ocean,  this  thirst,  this 
hunger,  the  sweating  sun  of  the  hur- 
ricane season,  the  malarial  moon 
that  pinches  the  face  and  leaves  it 
glassy  and  cold,  and  the  trembling 
chance  of  reaching  land  across  three 
thousand  leagues  of  misery  with 
Gustave  Flavelle,  the  outlaw  of 
France  ?  Eh  bien  !  that  is  a  ques- 
tion which  Gustave  Flavelle  cannot 
answer.  He  is  only  so  grateful ! 
He    kisses     his    hand — there!  —  to 


says. 


Mon 


Junie      Cavour,     and 
sauveur  /  " 

La  Grive,  pale  of  lip  and  weary 
of  eye,  but  striking  and  pathetically 
handsome    still,    r  oved    her    fingers 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 


8i 


slowly  over  the  waves  of  her  tawny 
hair,  and  with  a  wistfully  playful 
motion  of  the  head  replied  :  "  You 
wish  to  know,  mon  ami?  Well,  for 
one  thing,  because  that  was  misery 
there  for  me,  too.  Monsieur  le 
Commandant, —  you  thiyik  ?  Faugh  ! 
I  had  him,  so,  around  my  finger.  I 
was  a  power,  the  greatest  in  New 
Caledonia.  I  thought  power  would 
bring  happiness.  Ah  !  ah  !  that  was 
amusing !  Monsieur  le  Command- 
ant was  devoted  —  and  jealous.  He 
thought  me  wise  in  counsel.  He  ap- 
plauded me  when  his  foolish  officers 
were  stricken  in  their  vanity  —  by 
me.  But  everything  palled.  I  loved 
nothing  of  it.  I  hated  them  all,  ex- 
cept the  gendarmes  and  the  prisoners. 
For  one  political  prisoner  I  had 
much   regret  —  much.     He  was  gay 


hi 


ik 


82 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 


and  yet  wise.  He  had  been  wise  and 
yet  gay.  Years  before  I  had  laughed 
when  he  was  fo/afre,  and  cried  when 
he  was  Iris U  —  in  his  books.  That 
was  when"  ....  She  paused,  her 
lustrous  eyes  fixed  abstractedly  on  the 
sickly  horizon  before  her.  There 
was  silence  for  many  moments.  Gus- 
tave  Flavelle,  with  his  elbows  on  his 
knees  and  his  chin  in  his  hands, 
watched  her.  At  last  he  said,  "  Yes, 
La  Grive,  that  was  —  when  — 
when  ? " 

She  slowly  looked  towards  him, 
and  replied :  "  When  I  was  not  La 
Grive,  when  I  was  young,  when  I 
was  an  exile  in  England, —  it  seemed 
like  that  to  me, —  when  I  earned  my 
living  by  teaching  good  English  girls 
what  not  to  read  in  French.  .  .  .  Ah, 
how  like  a  farce  it  is  !  ...   But  they 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 


83 


were  sweet  and  noble  ;  and  I  was  good 
then,  too.  ...  I  taught  them  to  read 
Gustave  Flavelle.  I  wished  some 
day  that  I  might  come  to  know  him 
face  to  face,  the  young  novelist ;  and 
I  have.  ...  So  you  see  !  " 

She  leaned  back  with  a  fluttering 
suspiration  of  breath,  and  relapsed 
into  silence.  He  shaded  his  eves 
with  his  h.ind,  and  scanned  the  circle 
of  the  horizon  mechanically.  Then 
he  turned,  and  said,  "  What  changed 
all  that,  Junie?" 

Her  hands  suddenly  clinched,  her 
large  eyes  glowed  until  the  dark  rims 
of  suffering  around  them  were  one 
with  their  dusky  radiance.  "Ah," 
she  said,  "you  have  discernment  — 
well  !  .  .  .  You  have  seen  the  foun- 
tain at  Versailles  in  the  sun, —  I  was 
like  that ;  the  roses  in   the  Bois  de 


84 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 


f.i' 


.  I-  , 


Boulogne  on  2ifete  day, —  that;  the 
song  of  the  birds  in  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes, —  that ;  the  golden  stars  that 
dance  in  June  —  all  that.  .  .  .  Well, 
what  ?  But  that  is  my  story.  You 
see  the  sky  there  like  a  yellow  shower 
of  mist  in  plague  time,  and  the  red 
billows  of  the  evil  sun  that  roll 
through  it  ?  Well,  that  is  the  back- 
ground and  the  foreground  of  my 
life.  But  in  New  Caledonia  they 
thought  I  was  always  gay,  because  I 
laughed  in  their  faces.  .  .  .  Bah  !  .  .  . 
Do  you  know,  mon  amiy  what  it  is  to 
have  a  hot  iron  band  pressing  in  and 
in  upon  the  heart,  until  there  is  no 
heart  left  at  all,  only  a  nameless 
ache,  a  cold  emptiness?  No,  you 
do  not,  except  as  the  poet.  Ah, 
Gustave  Flavelle,  to  think  that  I 
speak  so  to  you,  and   here !      .  .   Is 


it 
'.J 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 


8S 


it  perhaps  i  ecause  we  are  near  to 
death  ?  Ah !  Yes.  So.  See,  to 
the  north,  nothing  but  hateful  sea 
and  the  murrain  sky,  the  drip  of 
equatorial  poison,  the  sieve  of  fever. 
To  the  south,  the  east,  the  west,  the 
same.  Bieriy  mon  Gustave,  would 
you  not  drink  to  death  if  we  each 
had  one  glass  of  wine  P  " 

He  had  drawn  near  to  her.  At 
her  feet  he  looked  up,  a  suffusing 
kindness  overcoming  the  pale  endur- 
ance of  his  face,  and  said :  "  Junie, 
I  did  not  know  you.  I  was  gay,  but 
not  wise.  I  only  saw  the  flash  of 
light,  not  the  sun  itself." 

"  So,  Gustave,  so.  Because  at  first 
I  sang  to  them,  because  I  danced 
for  them  all  —  convicts,  soldiers, 
prisoners,  governor  —  they  called 
me   La  Grive.     But    do   you    know 


86 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 


ii' : 


what  my  father  called  me  when  I 
was  a  little  child  ?  It  was  L'Alou- 
ette,  because,  he  said,  I  would  soar, 
and  sing,  and  .  .  .  Mais  that  was 
long  ago  ;  and  —  and,  mort  ami,  I  am, 
as  you  see,  foolish, —  quite." 

Strength  had  suddenly  gone  out 
of  her,  the  rapt  passion  from  her 
face,  the  tension  from  her  fingers. 

"  Poor  Junie,  poor  La  Grive  !  " 
the  other  said ;  and  he  took  her  list- 
less hand  tenderly.  "When  we  get 
to  the  land,  ma  cherie,  you  shall  have 
the  one  reward  that  the  outlaw  can 
give;    on  my  soul  !  '* 

Her  eyes  swarmed  with  flying 
thoughts  for  an  instant,  and  then 
the  joy  of  them  faded  again,  and  she 
said  very  softly : 

"What  would  you  do,  Gustave, 
what  would  you  do  for  La  Grive?" 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 


«7 


A  swift  struggle  appeared  in  his 
eyes,  and  then  he  was  about  to  reply 
with  faintly  smiling  lips ;  but  she 
touched  his  sunken  cheek  with  her 
forefinger,  and  whispered: 

"  Gustave,  mon  enfant,  I  know  the 
thought  that  fought  with  another  in 
you  for  a  moment.  What  sacrifice 
for  you  it  told!  I  used  to  sing  a 
song — ah,  so  lightly! — at  the  Cafe 
Papillon !  What  you  would  do  is 
in  it:  — 


*  God  bless  all  maidens  fair,  but  most 
The  jailer's  daughter  gay  ; 
She  who  in  youth's  sweet  pity 
Struck  all  my  bonds  away  ; 
And  should  I  e'er  return  to  Nantes, 
I'll  wed  her  yea  or  nay  : 
Gat  faluroTif  falurette  ! 
I'll  wed  her  yea  or  nay  — 
Gat  faluroTiy  dond'e  !  ' 


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33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  MS80 

(716)  872-4503 


pi> 


1 


88 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 


"  Gustave,  mon  brave  /  you  would 
do  that.  Just  for  the  moment  that 
thought  came  to  you.  It  was  noble. 
But  I  know.  There  is  one  in 
France,  young,  beautiful,  and  good. 
You  see  I  was  Monsieur  le  Com- 
mandant's censor  there.  You  will 
marry  her  some  day.  But  that  this 
thing  was  in  your  mind  for  me,  for 
La  Grive  —  it  is  great;  it  is  like 
Christ.  .  .  .  Ah,  but  so  for  me  to 
crown  the  headlands  of  your  life 
with  the  wrecker's  fire —  No,  that 
is  not  Junie  Cavour.  .  .  .  But,  I  am 
so  thirsty !  My  throat,  my  tongue, 
afire  altogether !  " 

Gustave  Flavelle  took  the  water- 
bag,  nearly  empty  now,  and  with 
compassionate  words  poured  out  a 
few  teaspoonfiils  of  water  in  a  cup 
and  handed  it  to  her.     She  seized  it 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 


89 


greedily,  and  put  it  to  her  lips,  but 
at  the  moment  paused  and  looked 
at  her  companion,  whose  eyes  were 
on  the  cup  with  an  involuntary 
covetousness  of  thirst.  Yet,  even 
then,  he  was  smiling  that  she  should 
have  the  water.  "  No,  no,**  she 
said,  "  I  will  not,  unless  you  also 
drink,  mon  enfant,  I  will  die  first. 
We  must  be  the  same  in  this,  you 
and  I ;  not  man  and  woman,  but 
soldier  and  soldier.  You  know  I 
fought  at  Voulari.  I  was  wounded. 
You  can  see,  if  you  roll  up  this 
sleeve,  the  spear  thrust  of  a  native. 
Well,  if  you  do  not  drink,  neither 
shall  I.  .  .  .  Ah!  but  you  must,**  she 
continued  with  playful  pathos.  "  La 
Grive  always  is  obeyed.** 

The  words  were  said  very  slowly, 
for    her    throat   was    painfully  dry. 


I 


90 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 


Without  a  word  Gustave  poured  out 
a  mere  drop  of  water  in  a  cup,  and 
raised  it  with  such  a  courtesy  as  one 
might  use  at  an  emperor's  banquet. 
"  To  the  hour  when  we  kiss  the  shore 
of  Australia,"  he  said.  "  To  that 
hour  with  you,  Junie  ! " 

They  smiled;  but  that  smile  was 
so  charged  with  destiny  that  a  great 
artist  would  have  immortalized  him- 
self to  have  painted  it  and  them  as 
they  drank.  They  smiled.  Others 
so  stricken,  so  compassed  about  with 
peril,  might  become  mere  animals  of 
thirst  and  hunger,  mere  unkempt, 
haggard  beings  broken  on  the  wheel 
of  disaster.  Not  so  they.  Their 
tragedy  had  comedy,  too ;  their 
pallor,  a  smile;  their  desolation,  a 
relieving  light  of  inner  and  airy 
stoicism,    both    throwing    back  with 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 


91 


sportive  fingers  the  cowl  from  the 
head  of  death.  ...  La  Grive,  in  her 
great  exhaustion,  sleeps. 

There  is  no  wind  to  fill  a  sail,  if 
they  had  one.  In  the  dank  stillness 
Gustave  Flavelle  attempts  once  more 
to  row,  first  covering  La  Grive's  face 
with  her  cloak  to  protect  her  from 
the  maddening  tropic  moon.  But  his 
oars  only  feebly  catch  the  phosphor- 
escent sea.  The  water,  like  molten 
silver,  drops  heavily  from  them.  At 
last,  with  laborious  breath,  he  lays 
the  oars  aside,  and  says  :  "  No,  Gus- 
tave Flavelle  :  it  is  no  use.  It  is  all 
the  luck  of  God  now  —  a  wind  with 
a  ship  or  death." 

That  night,  another  day,  another 
night  and  another  morning  comes : 
and  still  they  are  derelict  and  alone. 
No,  not  alone.     The  sea  is  peopled 


ga 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 


with  phantoms  that  beckon  them 
downward  to  the  noisome  depths. 
The  last  drop  of  water  is  long  gone. 
Their  dim  eyes  stare  out  of  piteous 
caverns.  La  Grive  is  only  just  alive. 
Her  companion  kneels  beside  her,  his 
eyes  still  scanning  the  horizon  for  a 
sail  or  steamship.  She  talks  of  flow- 
ing brooks  and  flowers  and  birds,  of 
dancing  at  the  Cafe  Papillon^  of  the 
fight  of  Voulari.  Once  she  said 
with  slow,  scornful  smile :  "  No, 
Monsieur  le  Commandant,  no,  mon 
ami.  It  cannot  be.  I  will  laugh 
with  you,  sing  with  you,  drink  with 
you,  rule  your  country,  but  never 
that!  .  .  .  Chut!  you  do  not  know  La 
Grive.  We  are  good  comrades.  You 
need  me  in  the  government.  Tiss ! 
that  is  enough, —  quite."  Then,  after 
a  long  pause,  in  which  hot  tears  hung 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 


93 


on  her  lashes,  she  whispered  to  Gus- 
tave  Flavelle,  with  no  knowledge  of 
who  he  was  in  her  eyes :  "  Hush, 
Monsieur  le  Commandant,  I  will 
tell  you  something.  You  know  Gus- 
tave  Flavelle,  the  patriot  prisoner? 
There,  that  is  different, —  where  one 
loves."  Her  companion  looked  at 
her  with  consummate  pity  and  ten- 
derness, and  he  murmured  brokenly  : 
"The  poor  Junie.  Is  it  so,  ma 
cherie  P  Well,  it  is  good  to  know  as 
one  dies  that  some  one  cares."  His 
head  sank  down  beside  hers  in  a  par- 
tial swoon.  How  long  he  lay  there 
he  couldn't  tell.  He  was  brought 
to  consciousness  by  feeling  a  cool 
breath  of  air  blow  over  him.  He 
staggered  to  his  feet.  There  was  a 
wind ;  and,  O  God  be  thanked ! 
there  was   a   vessel   on   the  horizon, 


fl) 


94         THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

with  wide-stretched  sails.  He  seized 
La  Grive's  arm,  and  cried,  "Junie, 
Junie,  a  sail,  a  sail !  "  It  came  nearer, 
nearer.  Yes,  they  must  have  been 
seen.  But  the  long  minutes  passed ; 
and  the  black,  pirate-looking  craft 
does  not  pause,  does  not  turn  from 
its  course.  ...  It  passes  them.  In 
vain  Gustave  Flavelle  waves  his  sig- 
nal feebly.  In  vain  !  "  Compassion- 
ate God,"  he  said,  "  they  pass  us 
by  1"  Even  so.  The  forms  that 
crowd  the  bows  of  the  swart  ship 
grew  fainter,  fainter.  Junie  Cavour 
falls  on  her  knees.  "  Merciful 
Jesu,"  she  said,  "  wilt  thou  not  save 
Gustave  Flavelle,  the  patriot,  and  the 
pitiful  La  Grive?  One  cannot  die 
so.     Ah,  mother  of  God  !  " 

But  the  swift  vessel  sailed  sardoni- 
cally on.     Was   such   a   thing   ever 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS         95 

heard  of  before  ?  That  awfiil  hospi- 
tality of  the  sea,  which  levels  to  one 
common  and  heart-grappling  degree 
the  mighty  merchantman  or  steel- 
clad  cruiser  with  the  humblest  fishing- 
smack,  to  be  so  belied  and  renounced 
here !  Could  anything  be  more  in- 
human ? 

That  was  what  Tom  Stormont, 
gentleman-digger  from  one  of  the 
islands  of  the  New  Hebrides,  who 
had  by  merest  accident  secured  a 
passage  on  this  doubtful  boat,  asked 
of  the  swarthy-faced  captain  and  the 
detestable  mate  of  the  Swallow^  and 
asked  it  with  such  determination  in 
his  look  that  any  one  could  have 
seen  him  to  be  a  man  of  mickle 
might  of  will.  "  Great  heavens  !  " 
he  said :  "  you're  not  going  to  leave 
that  derelict  to  its  fate  ?  " 


i-if 


liM 


I  I 


96 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 


"  I  stop  for  nothing  or  nobody !  " 
was  the  ruffianly  reply.  "  I  had  my 
orders  to  do  one  thing,  and  one 
thing  Fm  going  to  do.  I've  enough 
on  hand  to  look  after  these  niggers, 
without  turning  the  Swallow  into 
life-boat  and  hospital." 

Tom  Stormont  set  his  teeth 
grimly.  He  looked  to  where  the 
kidnapped  natives  were  jabbering 
and  making  excited  protest  towards 
the  derelict.  He  scanned  the  possi- 
bilities for  compassion  in  the  sulky 
mate's  face.  He  glanced  towards 
three  seamen  who  had  drawn  near, 
and  were  sullenly  regarding  their 
chief.  He  made  up  his  mind  in- 
stantly what  to  do.  "  Captain  Gas- 
kell,"  he  said  in  a  voice  ringing 
with  power,  "  you  must  stop  and 
pick  up  those  castaways  !     You're  a 


»» 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS         97 

*  black-birder/  a  buccaneer  of  human 
flesh  and  blood," — he  pointed  towards 
the  nativr.s — "but,  so  help  me  God, 
I  don't  believe  any  other  pirate  that 
ever  lived  would  do  so  scurvy  a  trick 
as  this  I     Stop  the  craft,  I  say  I " 

Two  armed  men,  who  acted  as 
guards  over  the  natives,  at  a  respect- 
ful distance  stood  still  in  expecta- 
tion. The  natives  crowded  upon 
the  barriers  which  kept  them  from 
the  after  part  of  the  ship.  The 
sailors'  eyes  were  on  Tom  Stormont. 
He  recognized  the  fellow  feeling  in 
them.  Captain  Gaskell's  mouth 
opened  and  shut  with  a  mumbling 
sound,  like  that  of  a  hound  when  it 
snatches  at  the  unbroken  flesh  of  the 
fox  which  it  has  quarried;  and  his 
yellow  teeth  showed  savagely  behind 
his  red  beard.     With  a  roll  of  curses 


98 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 


he  said  to  the  sailors,  "  Carry  him 
below,  and  put  him  in  irons.'* 

For  this  Tom  Stormont  was  pre- 
pared. The  sailors  stood  still.  He 
knew  they  would.  He  suddenly 
presented  a  revolver  at  the  captam's 
head.  "  If  they  stir,  you  are  a  dead 
man,"  he  said.  "  Give  the  order  to 
bring  the  Swallow  around,  and  send 
a  boat  to  pick  up  those  castaways  ! " 

A  murmur  of  approbation  came 
from  the  sailors.  The  captain 
looked  at  the  mate,  who  stood 
surlily  neutral,  and  then,  pale  to  his 
foaming  lips,  gave  the  order.  The 
sailors  obeyed  with  alacrity.  But, 
while  one  movement  of  a  tragedy 
was  drawing  to  a  close,  by  the  res- 
cue of  Gustave  Flavelle  and  Junie 
Cavour,  another  was  beginning. 
Through  the  strange  pantomime  that 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 


99 


had  just  been  enacted,  the  natives 
were  growing  to  a  knowledge  of 
what  kind  of  demon  had  brought 
them  away  from  their  island  homes. 
The  spirit  of  rebellion  and  revenge 
was  born  in  their  black  bosoms,  tv  en 
before  the  castaways  were  brought 
on  board,  and  their  hands  clasj^ed  by 
those  of  Tom  Stormcnt,  who,  not  co 
speak  it  profanely,  was  henceforth 
to  be  to  the  patriot  and  La  Grive, 
like  him  who  came  out  of  Edom, 
mighty  to  save. 


it. 


II. 

FOR  Tom  Stormont  the  situa- 
tion was  fraught  with  danger 
of  a  kind.  But  his  safety  lay 
in  the  fact  that  the  sailors  were 
friendly  to  him.  Captain  Gaskell 
had  only  the  vagabond  mate  with 
him  in  his  ugly  venom  ;  and  even  this 
compatriotship  of  evil  was  in  peril, 
through  his  having  been  too  free  in 
his  curses  regarding  the  lack  of  sup- 
port at  the  time  of  the  rescue.  The 
loyalty  of  a  drinking  villain  is  ever 
an  uncertain  quantity.  So  the  captain 
considered  it  wiser  not  to  let  loose  a 
fury  that  might  turn  and  rend  him. 
Besides,  he  was  fully  aware  that  the 
half-starved  natives,  poisoned  now  by 
the  belief  that  they  were  being  taken 
to  an  evil  doom,  were  seething  to 
revolt.     He  had    been  too  long  on 

lOO 


4 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       loi 


on 


the  way  from  the  New  Hebrides,  the 
Swallow  had  been  becalmed  for  days, 
and  provisions  were  now  nearly  ex- 
hausted. A  half-dozen  well-armed 
men  might  keep  a  hundred  unarmed 
natives  at  bay  ;  but  Captain  Gaskell 
had  awakened  to  the  unpleasant 
knowledge  that  half  at  least  of  these 
hundred  had  knives  or  native  weapons, 
in  the  shape  of  spear-points.  He 
watched  them  closely,  as  closely  as 
he  watched  Tom  Stormont,  who  In 
his  turn  was  vigilant.  With  this 
wind  for  two  days  more,  these  half- 
fed  natives  and  their  suggestive  dem- 
onstrations would  be  inside  the  Great 
Barrier  Reef  and  on  the  coast  of 
Australia.     But  those  two  days  ! 

Already  Tom  Stormont  and  Gus- 
tave  Flavelle  were  friends.  The 
Englishman  in  past  days  had  known 


n 


I02       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

well  of  the  literary  and  political  work 
of  the  other,  and  the  armor  of  com- 
panionship was  soon  welded.  Tom 
Stormont  asked  no  questions  con- 
cerning Junie  Cavour.  He  knew 
simply  that  it  was  through  her  the 
Frenchman  had  escaped.  On  the 
evening  of  the  third  day  after  the 
rescue  he  said,  however,  in  the  course 
of  a  long  talk :  "  I  was  in  Noumea 
for  a  day  a  couple  of  years  ago. 
They  talked  much  then  of  a  woman 
called  La  Grive,  who  appeared  to 
carry  the  colony  in  the  palm  of  her 
hand,  governor  and  all." 

His  astonishment  was  pronounced 
when  the  other,  emphasizing  his  re- 
mark with  puffs  of  cigarette  smoke, 
coolly  nodded  towards  the  spot  where 
Junie  Cavour  was  making  a  picture 
of   dramatic    suggestiveness    as    she 


f  J- 


£ 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 


103 


movelessly  watched  the  sinking  sun, 
and  replied,  "  She  is  La  Grive." 

"  She,  Monsieur  Flavelle  !  She, 
La  Grive  !  You  astound  me.  Why  " 
—  He  paused;  for  at  that  instant  he 
heard  the  loud  snarl  of  voices  be- 
hind them,  and,  turning,  he  saw 
the  mate  staggering  across  the  decic 
with  drunken  gesture.  Behind  him 
was  the  captain.  A  name  was  bandied 
between  the  two  with  menace  on  the 
one  hand,  with  growls  of  profane  de- 
fiance on  the  other.  Yet  why  should 
that  name  bring  Tom  Stormont 
swiftly  to  his  feet?  Why  should 
it  cause  Junie  Cavour  to  turn  sharply 
and  amazedly  round  ?  Why  should 
it  send  the  mate  with  frenzied  gestic- 
ulation down  the  hatchway  ? 

In  an  instant  Tom  Stormont,  with 
grim,  inquiring  face,  was  by  the  cap- 


h  ij 


^li 


I-55 

if: 


104      THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

tain's  side.  "To  whom  are  these 
natives  consigned?  In  other  words, 
whose  boat  is  this,  and  who  pays 
you  for  stealing  these  islanders  ?  '*  he 
asked. 

Captain  Gaskell  looked  Tom 
Stormont  up  and  down  with  an  in- 
effective attempt  to  be  overwhelm- 
ing, and  gruffly  said :  "  So  you'd 
like  to  know  the  name  of  the  J.  P. 
that's  going  to  put  you  behind  the 
bars  for  mutiny,  eh  ?  You're  hank- 
ering to  know  who  owns  these  nig- 
gers and  this  Swallow  and  tjie 
biggest  sugar  plantation  and  a  third 
of  one  of  the  fattest  gold  mines 
in  Queensland  ?  Well,  then,  take 
Rothsay  Hecklar  in  your  throat,  and 
see  how  you  like  it."  And  the  ruf- 
fian walked  aft. 

Tom    Stormont    said    that    name 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       105 

over  and  over  to  himself,  with  his 
hands  thrust  deep  down  in  his 
pockets.  His  lips  were  curled  in 
contempt :  there  was  a  fret  of  battle 
in  his  eyes.  The  sound  of  some 
one  breathing  hard  caused  him  at 
last  to  look  up  ;  and  he  saw  La  Grive 
standing  before  him,  her  face  radi- 
ating suppressed  excitement,  and  a 
wan  smile  of  discovery  on  her  lips. 
Their  eyes  were  set  to  one  long, 
penetrative  look,  and  then  a  tri- 
umphant glance  of  knowledge  im- 
pelled the  woman  close  to  the  Eng- 
lishman. She  scanned  his  face 
closely ;  and,  with  a  shuddering  sigh, 
she  said :  "  Ah,  monsieur !  it  is  so 
strange !  I  had  not  remembered 
you  until  now,  and  yet  your  face 
has  haunted  me  ever  since  you  res- 
cued   us.       Since    you    rescued    us. 


mmmf 


'  i. 


io6       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

monsieur, —  that  is  so  strange,  too. 
You,  Rothsay  Hecklar's  enemy ! 
You  do  not  remember  me  ?  No ! 
You  never  knew  me !  But  that 
night  you  arrived  from  America  I 
saw  you  near  his  house  in  London, 
when  they  came  out  together  — 
he  and  she,  Rothsay  Hecklar  and 
Madeline  Boyer,  his  wife.**  .  .  .  She 
threw  her  head  back  as  does  a  deei 
when  it  faces  its  pursuers,  and  her 
teeth  closed  with  suggestion  of 
animal  malison.  Tom  Stormont 
dazedly    regarded    her    as    she 


con- 


tinued :  "  You  watched  them  drive 
away.  You  were  stunned,  bewil- 
dered. In  crossing  the  street,  a 
hansom  knocked  you  down.  From 
your  pocket  a  letter  fell, —  a  letter  to 
him.  I  picked  it  up,  and  —  kept  it. 
And    then    they    came    and    carried 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       107 

you  away.  I  tried  to  follow;  but  I 
was  weak  and  ill,  and  couldn't.  .  .  . 
And,  then,  do  you  know  what  they 
did  with  me  ?  They  arrested  me  in 
the  street.  They  said  that  I  had  too 
much  wine.  Oh,  how  they  lied  — 
the  English  beasts  !  They  could 
not  tell  when  a  woman's  brain  is 
turned  and  her  heart  is  broken.  .  .  . 
I  was  in  the  hospital  for  a  long  time. 
The  years  have  passed ;  and  so  I  am 
here  and  you  are  here.  Monsieur 
Tom  Stormont ! " 

Gustave  Flavelle  had  withdrawn 
from  them  at  La  Grive's  first  words. 
These  were  confidences  which  he  felt 
he  had  no  right  to  share.  Tom 
Stormont  said  with  depreciating  gest- 
ure :  "  I  believed  in  him.  We  were 
friends." 

"Yes,   yes,    I    know.      You   went 


!;  I 


1?         I 


tf    ! 


:i! 


V-  |: 


1 08       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

away  to  California  together,  after 
gold.  You  found  it  at  last  —  much. 
But  then  you  were  taken  ill  of  fever 
at  a  lonely  spot  in  the  Sierras.  He 
abandoned  you,  and  carried  the 
money  with  him.  Some  Indians 
found  you,  and  you  recovered  after 
a  long  time.  You  came  back  to 
England  to  find  him  rich,  of  course, 
and  —  though  it  was  not  of  course  — 
married  to  the  girl  who  had  prom- 
ised to  be  your  wife  —  the  good 
Madeline  Boyer.  .  .  .  He  had  made 
her  to  believe  that  he  had  nursed 
you  till  you  died  —  he  was  sure  you 
had  died ;  and  she,  without  love, 
married  her  lover's  friend.  Ah  !  So, 
the  poor  lady  !  .  .  .  Tell  me,  mon- 
sieur, does  he  or  she  know  that  you 
live?*' 

"  No,  I  would  not  wreck  her  life  ; 


LiUU 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       109 

and  I  spared  him,  too,  and  came  to 
the  South  Seas." 

"But  now  —  but  now,  monsieur, 
what  will  you  do?  You  are  poor, 
eh  !  is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  poor." 

"Well,  he  has  money:  it  is  yours. 
His  wife  is  yours :  he  stole  both 
from  you,  and  he  killed  you.  Yes, 
he  killed  your  life.  I  know !  "  ... 
She  touched  his  breast  with  her  fore- 
finger, gently. 

Tom  Stormont  looked  at  her  half- 
wonderingly,  half-pityingly ;  for  he 
felt  th::t  she  had  some  tale  of  ill  on 
her  own  behalf  to  unfold.  "And 
you,"  he  said.  "  What  do  you  ex- 
pect from  this.?  Wherein  lies  your 
wrong.  La  Grive  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  you  know  they  call  me  that. 
.  .  .  Wherein  lies   my   wrong,   men- 


I   i: 


\>l 

i  : 

j 

1 

i 

Ml 

i 

f  ■ 
1 ' 

L    i 

110       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

sieur  ?  **  She  shook  her  head  hack 
with  a  laugh,  but  her  eyes  were  afire. 
She  leaned  for  a  moment  against  a 
mast  wearily.  Then  she  continued  : 
"  He  lied  to  me  at  the  first  so 
grossly  !  but  that  is  no  matter  now.  I 
was  alone :  I  loved  him  then.  That 
was  something,  was  it  not,  to  be  loved 
with  a  first  love,  altogether?  ...  I 
was  foolish  and  young.  I  liked 
power  and  money  —  many  things.  I 
was  ambitious.  .  .  .  He  did  not  keep 
his  word.  ...  I  did  not  care  so  much 
of  the  wrong  —  the  world  was  bright, 
and  he  was  kind  —  until  my  child 
was  born.  .  .  .  Ah  !  monsieur,  it  was 
so  sweet.  I  could  have  died  of  that 
happiness.  But  then  rose  the  thought 
of  the  days  to  come.  All  at  once  I 
waked  to  the  great  aching  misery. 
I   saw   its    life  —  a  girl  —  nameless  ! 


Ill 


was 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

I  hardened    my  heart.     I   told   him 
that  he  must  be  true  for  the  baby's 
sake,  the   little    Faustine.  .  .  .  Mais 
I  learned  then  how  cruel  a  man  can 
be.     I  saw  that  he  hated  the  pretty 
flower  of  my  life.     One  night  I  was 
taken  suddenly  ill,  and  nearly  died. 
...   I    think     sometimes    that    was 
poison.     He  would  know.  .  . .  When 
I  became  conscious  and   the  danger 
was  past,  he  told  me  that  the  child 
TJ^as    dead,    that    I    had    accidentally 
Smothered  it.     Oh,  what  a  devil  was 
in  him !  .  .  .   I  knew  that,  if  I  were 
mad  as  a  thousand  devils  like  his,  I 
could  not  hurt   Faustine.  .  .  .  Well, 
at  last  I  suspected  another  wrong  to 
me;    and    on   that   night,  when  you 
discovered  him,  I  discovered  also  the 
wrong.  ...   I  had  not  known  that  he 
had  married   until   then.  .  .  .  When 


Illll 


1  ' 


1 1 


I  i 


112       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

I  recovered,  they  had  left  England. 
One  day  a  message  came  to  me  from 
a  dying  woman.  I  went  to  see  her : 
it  was  a  maid  who  was  in  the  house 
when  Faustine  was  killed — yes, 
killed  by  Rothsay  Hecklar,  her 
father.  Ah  !  mon  Dieu  !  the  woman 
came  back  one  swift  instant  from 
death  to  tell  me  that  much,  but  only 
that  much  !  .  .  .  And  so  you  see !  " 

Tom  Stormont  did  not  immediately 
reply.  Something  very  like  a  sob 
was  choking  him  :  her  story  had  been 
told  with  such  searching  pathos.  She 
saw  this,  and  with  a  tremulous  motion 
of  the  hand  towards  him  said :  "  I 
have  told  you  all,  because  I  believe 
this  meeting  is  of  heaven  —  for  one 
of  us.  Which  one?  Ah!  Monsieur 
Stormont,  you  are  a  good  man :  you 
are  brave,  too.    You  are  like  Gustave, 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       113 

great  —  in  a  different  way.  Bien  ! 
You  know  now  all  of  La  Grive.  .  .  . 
Regarded:  you  will  be  silent  over 
there  ? "  she  pointed  in  the  direc- 
tion of  that  sky  line  beyond  which 
Australia  lay  —  "silent  until  the  time 
has  cr  'e;  and  then  you  and  I  will 
speak  of  this  once  again." 

Tom  Stormont  slowly  replied : 
"  You  have  told  me  your  history. 
Well,  I  am  sorry.  It  only  makes 
me  hate  him  the  more.  But  we  will 
not  speak  of  this  again,  mademoiselle 
—  if  you  please." 

But  Junie  Cavour  saw  before  her 
a  vista  of  fateful  events.  There 
should  appear  a  new  heaven  and  a 
new  earth  for  at  least  two  of  the 
children  of  men.  But  in  that  new 
heaven  and  new  earth  she  knew  she 
would  have  no  part  or  lot.     She  only 


■  i 


I       1 


114       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

smiled  at  that  prescient  thought,  and 
said  to  her  companion  :  "  Yes,  mon- 
sieur, we  will  speak  of  it  just  once 
again  .  .  .  and  then  not  at  all.  I  have 
told  you  so  much.  I  will  tell  you 
more.  It  is  best  so.  You  will 
understand  Gustave  Flavelle,  the 
patriot,  there.  Well,  he  is  noble. 
He  would  sacrifice  himself  for  me  : 
that  is  the  poet  in  him.  He  shall 
not,  monsieur ;  but  it  is  beautiful  to 
think  of  for  a  moment.  It  is  heaven, 
—  quite.  .  .  .  Pardon/  pardon  /  that  I 
speak  so  much,  but  .  .  .  Ah  !  what  is 
that? "  she  added  sharply. 

From  the  native  quarter  there 
came  muttering  sounds,  like  the 
growls  of  wild  beasts.  Tom  Stor- 
mont  had  been  so  long  among  the 
Polynesians  that  he  caught  instantly 
at  a  sense  of  danger.     He  ran  for- 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       115 

ward.  Among  the  natives  was  the 
mate,  blinded  with  drink.  He  was 
pouring  out  liquor  from  a  bucket, 
and  handing  it  to  the  islanders.  The 
stalwart  digger  sprang  over  among 
them,  seized  the  bucket,  and  hurled 
it  into  the  sea.  Then  he  endeavored 
to  push  the  mate  aft.  But  the 
wretch  was  mad  with  drink,  and 
blood-thirsty.  He  turned  to  the 
savages,  and  in  a  few  words  of  their 
own  language  raised  them  to  mur- 
derous frenzy  like  his  own.  Tom 
Stormont  retreated  swiftly  aft,  calling 
for  the  guard  to  stand  steady  — 
which  they  did  not  do  —  and  to  the 
captain  and  sailors  to  arm.  La 
Grive  he  drew  swiftly  back.  To  the 
captain  Tom  Stormont  said  :  "  Don*t 
fire  yet.  Let  me  do  what  I  can 
first." 


I  ;  ■  ?: 


I 


ii6       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

Six  rifles  were  levelled.  The  na- 
tives in  their  onward  movement 
paused.  Even  six  death  -  dealing 
weapons  are  awkward  for  a  hundred 
men  to  face  at  the  start.  The  sav- 
ages suddenly  changed  their  plan  of 
action.  They  pushed  the  mate  be- 
fore them,  and  held  their  knives 
over  him  menacingly.  This  in- 
stantly sobered  him.  Sane  now,  he 
grew  lividly  still  with  fear.  "  More 
drink,  more  food ! "  the  blacks 
shouted.  It  was  at  this  moment 
that  Tom  Stormont,  notwithstanding 
the  captain's  cursing  determination 
to  fire,  stepped  between  the  natives 
and  the  rifles,  coolly  drew  his  tobacco 
pouch  from  his  pocket,  and  quickly 
yet  not  hurriedly  filled  his  pipe, 
walking  steadily  towards  the  fore- 
most  Polynesian,  and    looking    him 


Ijii 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       117 

in  the  eye  unconcernedly  as  he  did 
so.     He    knew   the   calibre    of  this 
race:    harmless    enough,    when    not 
roused;    fiendish,  when   the  lust  of 
fighting   was    on    them.     His    easy 
intrepidity   dazed    them    for   a    mo- 
ment.    He    spoke    to    them    words 
of  good-fellowship,    and    the    senti- 
ments   were   given    interesting    em- 
phasis.    He    held    the    now    lighted 
pipe  to  the  mouth  of  this  foremost 
native.     There  was  an  instant  sullen 
gravity,     then     the     mouth     slowly 
opened  and  the  pipe-stem  went  in. 
This  done,  he  took  some  cigarette- 
papers    from      his     pocket,    rapidly 
rolled  one  and  handed  it  to  another 
native,  motioning  him  to  light  it  at 
the  fiery  pipe.     Others   quickly  fol- 
lowed;  and,  as  the  natives  received 
the  gifts,  they  put  their  weapons  in 


11 


ii8       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

their  lava-lavos  or  laid  them  aside. 
A  spell  was  on  them.  In  this  brief, 
strangely-won  truce  the  mate  began 
to  creep  away.  Tom  Stormont  saw 
the  danger,  and  in  a  low  tone  com- 
manded him  to  be  still  for  a  little 
longer.  But  the  fellow  was  in  terror 
of  his  life,  and  only  quickened  his 
movements.  There  were  ominous 
sounds  from  some  of  the  yet  un- 
bribed  natives,  and  an  upraised  knife 
showed  that  a  critical  moment  had 
arrived.  But  just  at  the  supreme 
apex  of  doubt,  and  when  Tom  Stor- 
mont felt  that  lives  were  hanging  by 
a  gossamer  thread,  one  of  the  natives 
called  to  the  others  with  a  wild-eyed 
chuckle.     "See!  see  !'*  he  said. 

There  on  the  deck  between  the 
natives  and  the  rifles  was  La  Grive ! 
She  had    instantly  seen    the   danger 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       119 

and    the   intrepidity    of   Tom    Stor- 
mont's  scheme  to  save  the  mate.     It 
flashed    through    her   mind    at    the 
same    time   how  once    in    the  forest 
of  New  Caledonia,  before  the  fight 
at  Voulari,  she  had  saved  her  own 
life  as  well  as  that  of  the  comman- 
dant  and    his    aide-de-camp    by   her 
dancing —■  dancing   that  had    turned 
the  heads  of  London  one  year;  how 
the  natives    had    been   so  overcome 
that  they   made   her   a    chieftess   by 
rubbing  her  arm,  lanced  with  a  spear- 
point,  against  the  blf^eding  shoulder 
of  a  great  chief. 

And  now  she  was  dancing  on  the 
deck  of  the  Swallow, 

"Put  up  your  rifles,  gentlemen- 
executioners,"  said  Tom  Stormont 
to  himself,  as  he  pushed  the  mate 
aft  with  his  boot :  "  there  will  be  no 
bloodshed  to-day." 


■fif 


Mil 


1 

.1 

• 

]     ■ 

r 

■J 

1 

120       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

To  dance  well  is  as  great  an 
achievement  in  the  eyes  of  a  Poly- 
nesian as  to  be  dexterous  in  the  ac- 
cumulation of  gory  heads  in  battle. 

From  the  first  instant  La  Grive 
caught  and  held  the  gaping  attention 
of  the  natives.  There  was  some- 
thing diabolically  beautiful  in  the 
dramatic  intensity  of  this  dancing. 
It  was  not  only  sensuous  grace,  not 
mere  bending  and  swaying,  but 
splendid  poetic  strength,  magnificent 
nervous  meaning,  superb  aplomb  — 
the  daring  rhapsody  of  a  glorious 
Maenad.  There  in  the  tropic  sun- 
set, on  a  suddenly  becalmed  sea, 
with  the  sails  idly  flapping  for  an 
accompaniment,  she  danced  hatred 
and  evil  and  blood-thirstiness  away. 
Now  it  was  the  tense  pose  of  one 
who   would    defy  the  stars   in    their 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       121 

courses,  now  the  faint  roll  of  mus- 
ketry from  her  vivid  feet.  The 
movement  of  armies  was  in  the  lis- 
some breadth  of  her  fine  gestures, 
the  gayest,  weirdest  fantasies  of  a 
master  musician  were  in  the  enchant- 
ing rhythm  of  her  swaying  body,  the 
rapt  exultation  of  one  who  was 
drunken  with  pure  oxygen  was  in 
her  impassioned  face.  A  black,  wan- 
dering sea-bird  circled  overhead,  and 
brown  humanity  crouched  conquered 
before  her.  The  captain's  yellow 
teeth  were  clenched  to  one  unmov- 
ing  grin  of  fascination.  An  ecstasy 
possessed  her.  She  swung,  she 
whirled,  she  panted  with  beaming 
life,  she  laughed.  Swifter,  swifter ! 
more  and  more  intoxicating !  But 
let  us  leave  her  there  triumphant. 


I 


»'lfi 


PI 

MM 


III. 

THE  Swallow  sailed  into  a 
natural  and  unfrequented 
harbor  of  the  Queensland 
coast  in  the  friendly  gloom  of  a 
cloudy  evening,  and  her  passengers 
and  dusky  freight  were  safely  landed. 
Tom  Stormont  and  La  Grive  were 
prepared,  if  not  willing,  to  see  Roth- 
say  Hecklar,  the  planter  and  slaver, 
there ;  but  only  his  agent  was  pres- 
ent. To-night  the  natives  were  to 
be  housed  in  some  rude  huts,  and 
to-morrow  started  on  their  march 
across  the  hill  to  "  Lebanon,'*  the 
plantation  where  Madeline  Hecklar, 
once  Madeline  Boyer,  ruled  her 
household  in  a  stately,  neutral  way, 
uninterpreted  of  those  about  her, 
unreadable  even  to  her  husband  — 
strangely   changed    from    the   warm- 


122 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       123 

faced,  frank-thoughted  girl  who  had 
bade  Tom  Stormont  God-speed  in 
his  quest  for  gold  years  ago.  A 
shadow  was  in  her  life.  Her  gift 
of  wise  yet  not  oppressive  reticency 
was  the  chief  outlying  evidence  of 
it.  The  only  other  apparent  testi- 
mony was  the  sleepless  eyes  that 
watched  the  misty  moon  wheel  away 
behind  the  hills  and  the  Southern 
Cross  fade  into  the  morning,  and  the 
slow  lips  that  murmured  hidden 
thoughts  to  the  waves  of  a  coral  sea ; 
but  these  things  were  not  seen  by 
any  eye  save  God's.  She  distrusted 
her  husband.  She  knew  some  evil 
had  been  done  her ;  but  she  could 
not  surely  define  it,  and  she  had 
naught  by  which  to  accuse.  She 
also  had  come  to  know  that  his  char- 
acter was    unworthy,  and  that  there 


I  ;:>.    i 


1. 

I'M  in 


\ln 


I 


m 


124       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

was  some  dark  thing  in  his  life.     But 
what  ? 

Once  he  had  dared  to  tax  her  with 
cherishing  a  memory  that  was  not  in 
keeping  with  her  wifely  duty,  but 
he  was  met  by  such  a  vehemence  of 
suggestion  and  icy  scorn  that  he 
never  repeated  his  offence.  He  had 
bought  a  hoped-for  happiness  at  a 
tremendous  cost.  Fate  held  a  lien 
on  his  existence.  Foreclosure  must 
occur.  It  was  peculiar  that  he  felt 
no  shiver  of  warning  pass  through 
him  at  the  moment  when  Gustave 
Flavelle  appeared  in  his  doorway, 
delivering  a  note  of  introduction  that 
the  agent  —  at  the  harbor  —  of  the 
Swallow  had  given  him.  On  the 
advice  of  La  Grive  the  Frenchman 
had  told  the  agent  just  who  he  was 
—  no  criminal,  no  convict,  no  enemy 


But 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       125 

of  the  morality  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
dispensation,    but    a    gentleman    of 
France,  companion  of  Henri  Roche- 
fort  and  Felix  Rastoul,  sent  hugger- 
mugger  out  of  his  native  country  to 
rot  in  a  savage  island  of  the  South. 
At  Lebanon  he  could  wait,  she  said, 
until    money   came  —  until,  through 
the  aid  of  sympathizers  in  Sydney, 
he  could  sail  again  for  Europe.     She 
was     sure     that     Rothsay     Hecklar 
would    be    flattered    by   the    associa- 
tion.    Besides,  she  insisted,  it  suited 
her    that    Gustave    Flavelle    should 
find  his  home  for  a  time  at  Lebanon. 
And,    since     Gustave     Flavelle    had 
views  in  his  chivalric  heart  regarding 
La   Grive   which  as  yet  he   did  not 
make  definitely  clear  to  her,  he  con- 
sented to  seek  a  position  of  Rothsay 
Hecklar.     It  was  as  she  said.     The 


126       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

planter,  slave-dealer,  murderer,  as 
he  was,  had  sensibilities  of  a  pleasing 
kind,  like  many  another  of  his  class. 
He  was  far  from  adverse  to  having 
in  his  employ,  as  under-manager,  the 
famous  French  novelist  and  poli- 
tician. 

Gustave  Flavelle  did  not  hide 
from  the  planter  the  fact  that  he 
owed  his  escape  to  a  woman  whom 
he  had  left  in  a  hut  in  the  hills  near 
the  Hebron  Falls,  and  to  whom  he 
was  attracted  by  all  the  ties  of  grati- 
tude and  —  affection.  This  again 
was  on  the  advice  of  La  Grive.  The 
Frenchman  told  the  story  airily.  To 
the  planter  it  seemed  like  a  page  out 
of  Balzac ;  and  he  inwardly  deter- 
mined to  see  to  some  purpose  the 
rescuer  of  this  newly  made  under- 
manager. 


I    i 


;r,  as 
easing 

class, 
laving 
;r,  the 

poli- 

hide 

at   he 

whom 

5  near 

)m  he 

grati- 

again 

The 

r.      To 

^e  out 

deter- 

ise  the 

under- 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       127 

"You  see,   monsieur,"   said   Gus- 
tave  Flavelle,  finishing   his  tale,  "it 
is  quite  amusing;  but  ah!  monsieur," 
and  he  shook  his  finger  in  mock  re- 
proof, "I  am  afraid   you'll   have  to 
change   the    command    of  the  Swal- 
low  if  you    desire    to    preserve    its 
stainless    reputation.     I    have   much 
fear   that    the   invitations    to    travel 
which  its    captain  issues  to    the    na- 
tives of  the    island    are    not  of  the 
kmd     encouraged     by    government. 
So,    truly!    ...    Oh,    pardon    me, 
monsieur,  champagne?  ...  Is  it  not 
unwise  —  ah !  you  laugh  so  at  what 
I   say  of  the  Swallow!  —  is  it    not 
unwise  that  you  give  your  employee 
champagne  ?  .  .  .  Bien,  if  you   insist, 
then.     So    I     drink  —  eh,    what    is 
that,   monsieur?  —  to    my   charming 
and  intrepid  companion  and  rescuer ! 


I 


'hi 


!  1 


128       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

.  .  .  Ah  !  Monsieur  Hecklar,  you 
honor  me  much.  .  .  .  De  grace^  a 
moment.  I  desire  to  add  to  your 
toast,  To  the  auspicious  moment 
when  monsieur  has  the  honor  of 
meeting  mademoiselle !  She  is  a 
great  woman,  monsieur.  You'll  see 
that  —  quite.  Love,  wisdom,  com- 
edy, tragedy —  it  is  all  in  her:  the 
full  ellipse  of  life,  the  perihelion  of 
all  the  planets  of  joy  and  suffering. 
Monsieur,  once  again :  To  the  hour 
when  you  have  the  honor  to  meet 
La  Grive !  " 

The  Frenchman  laughed,  eyes  and 
mouth,  as  he  stood  in  the  shade  of 
the  veranda,  and  Rothsay  Hecklar 
did  not  see  the  boding  something 
behind  the  laugh ;  but  Madeline, 
the  wife,  at  that  moment  glancing 
from  the  window,  did.     She  caught 


ill   i 


you 


meet 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       129 

the  ring  of  sharp  scorn.  The  fine 
rapier  point  of  hate  touched  the 
nerves  of  her  heart,  and  she  with- 
drew to  wonder  what  part  this  man 
was  to  play  or  had  played  in  her 
husband's  life.  The  time  came  when 
the  impression  faded,  but  it  had  its 
resurrection  duly.  And  so  it  was 
that  Gustave  Flavelle  began  a  brief 
career  at  Lebanon.  He  superin- 
tended the  pacific  breaking-in  of  the 
natives  who  had  made  life  momenta- 
rily exciting  on  the  Swallow,  He 
also  made  Rothsay  Hecklar  delicately 
and  covertly  to  understand  that  a 
compact  of  silence  was  safest  for 
both,  since,  if  one  was  a  refugee  from 
the  government  of  France,  the  other 
was  open  to  the  practices  of  the  law 
in  Australia  through  kidnapping  na- 
tives.    And  Captain  Gaskell  did  not, 


■I 


■  if     t" '  I 

1  '^' 


V-  m 


wn 


130       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

for  obvious  reasons,  have  Tom 
Stormont  arrested,  as  he  had  threat- 
ened. Tom  Stormont,  on  the  con- 
trary, secured  employment  as  assistant 
district  engineer  on  a  railway  that 
was  being  built  across  the  hills  and 
along  the  precipitous  sides  of  the 
Hebron  Gorge.  Junie  Cavour,  as 
Gustave  Flavelle  said,  had  found  a 
humble  home  in  a  mountain  hut. 
She  lives  a  life  of  mingled  joy  and 
tragic  apathy.  There  is  a  smother 
at  her  heart,  despite  the  gay  words 
that  rise  to  her  lips,  whenever  Gus- 
tave Flavelle  comes  to  see  her,  bring- 
ing, as  he  often  does,  Tom  Stormont. 
Altogether,  there  was  something 
about  her  beautifully  sardonic,  some- 
thing so  splendidly  irregular,  so 
vivid,  so  mentally  certain,  so  light- 
ning-like in   the  sweep   of  the  ele- 


Tom 
ireat- 

con- 
istant 

that 
is  and 
f  the 
ir,  as 
and  a 

hut. 
y  and 
lother 
words 

Gus- 
bring- 
•mont. 
ething 
some- 
ir,    so 

light- 
le  ele- 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       131 

ments  of  her  nature.  Life  in  her 
was  concentrated  along  the  narrow 
clefts  of  impossible  mountains,  on 
the  copings  of  dizzy  cliffs.  Hers 
was  the  sure  foot  of  the  chamois,  the 
daring  heart  of  the  wapiti,  the  reck- 
less glory  of  the  cassowary  as  it 
sweeps  down  the  ratline  side  of  a 
canon.  She  stood  on  precipitous 
peaks  of  life  as  calmly  secure  for  the 
moment,  as  indomitably  nerved,  as 
when  she  rode  the  horse  of  Assistant 
Engineer  Tom  Stormont  along  a 
pathway  of  Red  Bluffy  where  never 
horse  had  trod  before  —  betwixt  ii 
river-chasm  on  one  side  and  a  great 
excavation,  for  a  bridge,  on  the 
other.  A  partridge  whirring  in  the 
trees,  a  snake  starting  from  the  wild 
pumpkin  vines,  a  rolling  and  ob- 
trusive stone,  a   nervous  horse,  and 


m  i 


132       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

both  woman  and  animal  would  be  no 
more.  What  feared  she  ?  She  was 
forcing  the  elements  of  life  into  one 
swift  pulsation,  one  brief  scene  of 
activity.  How  else  had  she  sat 
before  a  nest  of  death-adders  at  the 
Cave  of  Crys  in  Hebron  Gorge,  and 
painted  them  as  they  writhed?  how 
else  seized  one  by  the  neck  and  held 
it,  as  with  her  brush  she  sought  the 
colors  of  its  breast  ? 

There  was  something  almost  gro- 
tesquely fateful  in  the  train  of  coin- 
cidences which  had  converged  here 
from  wide  points  in  the  compass 
of  the  world,  and  many  a  time 
Tom  Stormont  thought  upon  them. 
There  was  to  him  a  gloomy  fascina- 
tion in  being  near  his  Lost  Paradise, 
his  hand  almost  upon  the  traitor 
who  had  left  him  shipwrecked,  with 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       133 

the    wild    sea    booming    down    the 
hatchways    of    his     life,    and     who 
might  now,  after  all  these   years,  at 
any  moment  stand  before  him.     He 
never    could     rid     himself    of    the 
thought  of  that  retribution  which  La 
Grive  had   faintly   prophesied,  how- 
ever it  was  to  come !  for  might  not 
harm    come    to    her  —  to    the    only 
woman    he    had    ever    loved?     He 
longed    for    one    look    at    Madeline, 
one  sight  of  her  in  her  home.     He 
permitted    Gustave    Flavelle    to    tell 
him   but  little,  though  the  French- 
man lacked  not  a  willing  and  sym- 
pathetic   listener   in    Junie    Cavour. 
At  last  on  a  day  in  which  he  knew 
through  Gustave  Flavelle  that  Roth- 
say  Hecklar  would  not  be  at  home 
he    went    to     Lebanon.     He    came 
upon   Madeline,  the  wife,  seated  by 


134       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

the  riverside.  She  did  not  see  or 
hear  him.  He  was  hidden  in  the 
pines  a  few  paces  from  her.  With 
tears  in  her  voice  she  was  reading 
aloud  that  rare  and  beautiful  tale  in 
verse.  Convict  Once,  She  stopped 
many  times,  and  looked  around  as 
thv)ug^  s^'-nething  in  her  presence 
troubled  her.  At  last  she  took  a 
piece  of  paper,  and  wrote  on  it 
swiftly,  freely.  She  then  copied 
what  she  had  written,  and  laid  the 
first  slip  on  the  rough  seat  beside 
her.  After  a  moment's  thought  she 
rose,  and  began  to  walk  slowly  away. 
Tom  Stormont  stole  quietly  out, 
picked  up  the  paper  she  had  left, 
and  returned  to  his  hiding-place  just 
in  time;  for  she  came  back  to  get 
the  paper.  When  she  saw  that  it 
was  gone,  she  looked  around  timidly. 


as 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       135 

and  her  hand  pressed  her  heart. 
With  fear  in  her  sad  eyes,  she  disap- 
peared among  the  trees.  She  did 
not  see  a  strong  man  lean  his  head 
against  a  tree,  with  a  sob  rattling  in 
his  throat.  This  is  what  he  had 
read ;  — 

"  If  thou  art  dead,  I  pray  thee  come  not  near  me; 

For,  living,  I  the  parting  word  have  said.  * 

If  thou  canst  hear,  O  noblest  spirit,  hear  me! 

Touch  not  my  presence  now,  if  thou  art 

dead. 

"  I  would  be  strong,  be  faithful  and  enduring; 
Fret  at  no  chain,  accuse  not,  nor  despair,- 
Strain  at  no  hope,  bend  to  no  light  alluring; 
Nor  memory  cherish,   for   that    thou    art 
there. 

"If  thou  art  dead,  have  pity;  see,  I  tremble! 
I  dare  not  love  thee,  love,  so  sore  bestead; 
I  would  be  true,  though  he,  though  all,  dis- 
semble — 

'     Why   wakens  so  my    heart,   if   thou    art 
dead?" 


I 
I 


I 


136      THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

These  words  were  in  Tom  Stor- 
mont*s  mind  the  next  day  when  he 
stood  in  the  office  doorway  of  the 
"  Sunburst "  gold  mine  at  the  en- 
trance to  Hebron  Gorge,  waiting  for 
the  manager,  whom  he  had  sought 
on  business.  Two  men  were  emerg- 
ing from  a  shaft  before  him.  Sud- 
denly there  was  a  sharp  cry  from  one 
of  them.  They  had  forgotten  that 
Rothsay  Hecklar,  one  of  the  direc- 
tors, was  below,  inspecting  a  new 
lead  —  and  the  fuse  of  the  blasting 
had  been  lighted  f  The  name  of 
Rothsay  Hecklar  rankled  through 
the  summer  air  to  Tom  Stormont,  as 
he  ran  towards  the  shaft.  He  under- 
stood on  the  instant.  The  men 
dared  not  venture  to  save  the  im- 
perilled man.  Tom  Stormont  swiftly 
stepped  into  the  cage,  and  gave  orders 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       137 

to  lower  away.     In  spite  of  protesta- 
tions on  the  part  of  the  miners   the 
cage  was  lowered,  and  he  disappeared. 
White  faces  above  waited  in  dreadful 
suspense   for   an    explosion  —  which 
never  came!     At   length   there  was 
the  signal  to  haul  up  ;  and  soon  Tom 
Stormont  and   Rothsay  Hecklar  ap- 
peared  above    the    surface,  the    one 
calm  and  austere,  and  holding  in  his 
hand  an  inch  of  fuse  —  the  one  inch 
that  had   been  between   the   planter 
and  his  doom  —  the  other  downcast, 
and  with  a  look  of  sullen  shame  in 
his    eyes.      Without   a   word    they 
parted.     What   was    said,  what   was 
done,  at  that  meeting   in    the  grim 
solitude  of  the  tunnelled  earth,  with 
death    quivering    from    its    impotent 
attack  at  the   feet  of  these  two  men, 
one    the   wronged,  the   rescuer,    the 


Ff 


'I  I 


h  ,1 


138       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

other  the  wronger,  the  rescued,  lies 
hidden  in  their  own  hearts  and  in  the 
silences  which  are  not  of  earth. 

The  evening  of  that  day  La  Grive 
had  a  notable  interview  with  Gustave 
Flavelle,  who  had  ridden  up  from 
the  plantation.  She  told  him  that 
several  times  Rothsay  Hecklar  had 
tried  to  see  her  —  of  course  without 
knowledge  of  her  identity  —  that  she 
had  avoided  him.,  but  that  she  had 
determined  to  see  him  now.  Gus- 
tave Flavelle,  with  a  sudden  pre- 
monition of  evil,  tri:^d  to  dissuade 
her  from  her  purpose,  and  proposed 
that  they  should  leave  fcr  the  south, 
now  that  money  from  his  sym- 
pathizers had  come,  to  seek  some 
quiet  spot  where  they  could  live 
their  lives  free  from  turmoil,  and 
spend    their   days    in    security,   un- 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       139 

touched  by  the  arrows  of  persecution, 
unvexed  by  the  passion  of  revenge. 
"  Junie,  ma  cherie^''  he  said,  "  is  it 
worth  while  now  —  your  hatred  ? 
You  have  me.  Would  you  kill 
him?     Is  that  it?  '* 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  and 
then  she  said :  "  Gustave,  it  is  my 
whim ;  .  .  .  .  but  you  need  not  fear. 
I  will  not  kill  him  as  you  think  — 
not  as  you  think.  That  would  not  be 
pleasant  for  you  in  memory,  mon  ami. 
To  kill  him  would  part  us :  it  would 
be  good  for  you,  but  the  thought  of 
a  stab  or  a  bullet  wound  would  be 
vulgar  —  quite.  .  .  .  Mais,  my  Gus- 
tave, I  wish  to  say  something  to  you. 
I  know  that  you  should  go  to 
Europe  —  into  the  great  world.  I 
know  that  there  is  some  one  who 
waits  for  you,  and  mourns  that  you 


I 


si 


.irEii'W 


1*  •]■ 


f  ill  li' 


140       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

come  not.  Bietiy  you  will  not  go. 
Why  ?  Because  you  are  so  good. 
You  think  of  La  Grive.  You  can- 
not go  and  take  her  with  you.  You 
will  not  desert  her.  .  .  .  Ah  !  ah  ! 
Gustave  do  not  kiss  me  so.  Your 
arm  is  so  strong.  .  .  .  Hush !  You 
must  not  say  that.  You  must  be 
true  to  yourself,  to  France.  Chut ! 
You  must  forget  Junie.  I  followed 
you  because  I  was  tired  of  that  life 
there.  Well,  I  am  here.  We  are 
good  friends.  Is  not  that  enough? 
We  will  part  so  —  soon.'* 

He  interrupted  her :  "  No,  no, 
Junie  Cavour  !  I  know  your  heart. 
It  shall  be  as  I  wish.  You  risked 
your  life  for  me  —  all  for  me"  —  a 
smile  was  set  in  a  fine  firmness  on 
his  face  — "  and  I  swear  to  you  that 
I  will  not  leave  you.     But  you  shall 


ot  go. 

good. 

u  can- 

You 

!    ah! 

Your 
You 
ist  be 
Chut  I 
llowed 
at  life 
^e  are 
ough  ? 

),  no, 
heart, 
risked 

—  a 
:ss  on 
1  that 

shall 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       141 

go  with  me,  not   as   Junie    Cavour, 
but    as    June    F" —     She   put   her 
fingers  with  tremulous  solemnity  on 
his     lips,     interrupting     the     word  : 
'' Mon    Dieuf     hush!"     she    said; 
"but   you   shall    not,  my    Gustave." 
Her  eyes  were  moist.     She   sud- 
denly shook  back  her  hair  from  her 
brow,  drew  away  from  him  quickly, 
slightly  lifted  her  skirts,  with  a  smile 
as  pathetic  as  fascinating,  and,  as  if 
she   were   on   the   stage,  executed    a 
few  boldly  graceful  steps  before  him. 
'•You  see,  mon  enfant^  what  I  am," 
she    said  —  "only    La    Grive,    the 
dancer,  known  to  the  world   as   the 
friend  of  Monsieur  le  Commandant 
of  New   Caledonia.  .  .  .  With    you, 
to   be   blessed    by   priest   before   the 
world?     No!      No!"     Once    again 
she  swept  away  in  the  dramatic  im- 


4 


■mm 


/M:: 


)  I   I  * 


.  M 


lit  I 

; 


fill  ! 

I 


h 


; 


142       THE  CAVE  OP^  CRYS 

pulse  of  the  dance,  then  suddenly 
paused,  ran  over  to  him,  dropped  on 
her  knees  at  his  side,  and  said 
softly  :  "  Gustave,  mon  ami,  yes,  you 
must  leave  me  forever ;  .  .  .  but  to- 
night, just  to-night,  I  will  think  that 
there  is  no  past  and  no  future,  only 
the  present,  in  which  is  the  thing 
that  is  good." 

He  stroked  her  hair  gently,  and 
thought  of  how  God-like  a  power 
in  this  woman  had  been  turned  awry 
—  of  what  she  might  have  been  if, 
years  before,  when  she  was  wholly 
unsoiled  of  the  world,  she  had  come 
into  his  life. 

After  a  long  silence,  she  said : 
"  Gustave,  to  live  life  all  round  is 
given  only  to  the  few.  It  is  they 
who  understand  for  the  race,  by 
whose  experiences  the  world  is  made 


ddenly 
Ded  on 
i  said 
es,  you 
3Ut  to- 
ik  that 
e,  only 
;    thing 

ly,  and 
power 
d  awry 
)een  if, 
wholly 
d  come 

;  said  : 
)und  is 
is  they 
ice,  by 
is  made 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       143 

wise.  That  is  what  you  wrote  in  a 
tale  years  ago.  .  .  .  Voila !  I  have 
had  it  all  —  all,  Gustave  !  Of  this 
and  that  —  the  song  of  the  bird  and 
the  venom  of  the  serpent,  the  dew 
on  the  rose  and  the  hot  lead  sputter- 
ing on  the  heart,  the  iron  heel  of 
wrong,  the  hand  upon  the  main- 
spring of  power,  the  fingers  touching 
the  lever  of  revenge,  and  "  —  She 
paused. 

*•  And  what,  Junie  }  " 

"  And  at  last  chivalry  and  —  love. 
Is  it  not  enough }  " 

Outside  a  tropic  storm  was  sweep- 
ing down  the  Gorge  with  the  splendor 
of  an  avalanche.  To-morrow  the 
river,  fed  by  many  streams,  would 
with  majestic  force  stride  to  the 
Hebron  Falls,  and  leap  down  a 
thousand    feet    to    the   wild    rapids 


HMR 


if. 


it 


I'ii 


144       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

below.  But  this  night  Junie  Cavour 
lived  in  a  sunshine  which  had  nothing 
to  do  witii  the  wide  happenings  of 
the  universe. 

All  that  she  did  was  carefully  done. 
She  was  resting  now  before  the  last 
great  scene.  The  situation  of  each 
player  had  been  prepared,  had  been 
studied,  arranged.  She  knew  when 
the  hour  of  destiny  had  drawn  all 
things  to  itself:  the  minute  of  suc- 
cessful curtain-fall  should  be  hers ; 
the  victory  hers,  let  the  after-joy  be 
whose  it  would.  Unseen  by  Tom 
Stormont  and  Rothsay  Hecklar,  she 
had  witnessed  that  tragic  comedy 
at  the  Sunburst  Mine.  Then  she 
rapidly  drew  in  the  flying  cords  of 
fate.  She  sent  such  a  note  to  Roth- 
say Hecklar  as  she  knew  would  bring 
him  to  her,  at  a  certain  spot  on  the 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       145 

Hebron 'above  the   Falls,  at  a  fixed 
moment  the  next  evening.     She  had 
summoned  Tom  Stormont ;  and  Gus- 
tave  Flavelle  had  promised  to  meet 
her  where  she  said  she  would   give 
him  her  final  answer  concerning  their 
life,  now  and  hereafter.     It  is  one  of 
those  singular  circumstances  of  exist- 
ence, defying  all  calculation,  but  an- 
swering  to    the    experience    of    the 
world,  that  Gustave  Flavelle  thought 
upon  this  request  only  as  a  whim  of 
La  Grive  —  a  dramatic  whim.      To 
throw    herself  into   his    arms   where 
nature  shook   its   mane   back  in   the 
pride  of  its  strength   seemed  to  him 
quite   in   keeping  with    the    unusual 
character    of    Junie    Cavour.       But 
there  was  one  other.     Madeline,  the 
wife,  that  wholly  pure,  and  therefore 
far-off,  sister-woman  —  she,  too,  must 


r 


ii 


.I" 


it,  'Hi 


0li 


1 


a  I'  ■! 


?|l     t 


i  i: 

i 


146       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

be  there.  And  so  a  letter  sent  to 
her  failed  not  in  its  intent,  as  La 
Grive  knew  well  it  would  not.  It 
excited  imagination,  it  hinted  at 
mystery  and  wrong,  it  whispered 
with  distant  faintness  of  the  dead 
returned  to  life  and  of  the  balance 
of  happiness  readjusted.  Yes,  Made- 
line, the  wife,  would  be  there. 

The  morning  came,  the  long  day 
passed,  and  night  found  La  Grive 
arraying  herself  as  for  a  bridal.  At 
nine  o'clock  she  passed  from  her  hut 
to  the  riverside,  and  rowed  slowly 
across  the  swollen  stream,  being  care- 
ful to  keep  above  that  point  where 
the  whirlpools  and  the  fatal  currents 
began.  A  figure  was  waiting  on  the 
farther  bank  as  she  touched  it  —  the 
figure  of  Rothsay  Hecklar,  come  to 
meet  the  heroine  of  the  Swallow  at 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       147 

her  invitation,  at  last  —  her  delicate, 
insinuating  invitation,  that,  as  a  kind 
of  compensation  to  his  evil  heart, 
followed  so  hard  upon  his  yesterday's 
overwhelming.  She  motioned  him 
to  get  in.  He  did  so.  She  instantly 
pushed  off.  He  made  as  if  to  come 
near  her ;  but  she  said,  disguising  her 
voice  :  "  No,  not  so  —  yet.  There 
is  much  time  for  greeting  —  to  come." 
She  rowed  towards  the  middle  of  the 
stream,  but  downwards y  not  upwards, 
as  safety  required.  The  moon  was 
hidden.  He,  unsuspecting,  did  not 
think  of  what  the  boat  was  doing. 
Junie  Cavour  suddenly  rose  and 
lighted  the  dry  twigs  in  the  iron  cage 
at  the  stern.  They  were  now  on  the 
verge  of  the  fatal  currents.  Now 
he  divined  the  danger.  And  at  the 
moment  she  turned  towards  him,  her 


148       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

face  in  the  reflected  light  from  the 
burning  wood.  He  was  full  in  the 
glare.  He  recognized  her.  "  You  ! 
Tou!  Ah,  Flavelle's  La  Grive  !  "  he 
chokingly  said. 

Her  figure  dilated  with  a  lifetime 
of  emotion.  She  spoke  low,  though 
thrillingly.  "  Yes,  I  am  —  La  Grive. 
You  know  who  I  once  was,  Rothsay 
Hecklar.  Justice  has  been  long 
afoot,  but  it  finds  its  goal  at  last." 
She  pointed  towards  the  Falls. 

"My  God!  My  God!  You 
have  brought  me  here  to  kill  me." 

She  raised  the  oars,  and  threw 
them  from  her  into  the  stream.  "It 
is  not  I  that  drives  the  lightning 
home,"  she  said :  "  it  is  the  hand  of 
Heaven."  She  pointed  to  the  bank. 
"  There  is  safety.      Win  it,  if  you 


can. 


>> 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       149 

He  wrung  his  hands  in  impotent 
despair. 

"You  smothered  my  child/'  she 
said ;  "  and  now  you  reckon  with  the 
smothered  vengeance  of  a  mother's 
heart." 

"  You  are  mad  !  f  ou  are  mad  !  " 
he  moaned. 

"Yes,  I  am  mad,  Rothsay  Heck- 
lar ;  for  to  Jive  is  madness.  And  to 
die —  Ah,  it  might  have  been  so 
different!  My  child,  my  sweet 
Faustine,  and  I  shall  never  meet 
again ;  for  where  she  is  I  cannot  go. 
But  you  must  come  with  me  to 
stand  before  the  judgment-seat  of 
God." 

He  was  dull  with  panic.  There 
was  no  hope  now. 

"The  Falls!  The  Falls!"  he 
cried.     "We  are  lost!" 


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150       THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured  as  if  In  a 
dream,  as  if  she  now  no  longer 
thought  of  him,  sentence  being 
passed.  "  Yes,  we  are  lost  together, 
you  and  I.  We  sail  fast  and  far 
to-night.  See  !  "  She  pointed  below 
them  towards  the  shore.  "Your 
wife  and  Gustave  Flavelle,  and  Tom 
Stormont  above  them,  there  on  the 
rocks.     They  know  all  now." 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  those 
on  shore  recognized  the  two  far-trav- 
elling voyageurs.  The  wife  was 
stricken  still  with  horror ;  but  Gus- 
tave Flavelle  spoke  painfully  out 
across  the  flume  of  death:  "Ah, 
Junie !  Mon  Dieu !  Junie,  come 
back  !  come  back  !  " 

The  boat  was  now  in  the  straight 
slide  of  water  that  ended  at  the  cata- 
ract itself.     Rothsay  Hecklar  was  on 


THE  CAVE  OF  CRYS       151 

his  knees,  staring  in  stony  dread  at 
the  gloom  of  the  massy  gorge  before 
them.  Junie  Cavour  was  fronted  to 
the  shore.  Her  voice  rang  clearly 
out :  "  Gustave,  mon  ami,  it  is  the 
Great  Justice.  Adieu  /  .  .  .  the  great 
Retribution  !  Adieu  !  "  she  added,  as 
Tom  Stormont,  voiceless  before  this 
carnival  of  revenge  and  readjustment, 
approached  the  other  two. 

There  was  silence,  save  for  the 
conquering  rumble  of  the  Falls. 
Suddenly  Rothsay  Hecklar  fell  for- 
ward, senseless,  in  the  boat.  Junie 
Cavour  threw  a  kiss  towards  the 
shore,  and  turned  swiftly  to  face  her 
doom,  as  the  boat  shot  like  an  arrow 
into  the  chasm  of  destruction. 

Madeline  Hecklar  fell,  fainting, 
backwards ;  but  Tom  Stormont 
caught  her  in  his  arms. 


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